


Blood Feud

by Fluterbev



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Disability, Episode: s03e06 Vendetta, Episode: s04e08 The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-17
Updated: 2005-08-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 03:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16318319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluterbev/pseuds/Fluterbev
Summary: Blair suffers a life-changing event, Jim makes a life-changing decision, and together they fight a persistent bad guy and win.





	Blood Feud

“Hey, idiot, get out of the fucking way! I’m trying to watch TV, you asshole! Fuck, no one in this shit-hole has any fucking manners at all!”

Thierry Lacome obligingly shifted, but not without a resentful and wary look at the belligerent and loudmouthed man who was trying to peer past him at the TV screen. Thierry had learned not to cross the guy since he’d become one of the ‘guests’ at Conover. His fellow patient was obsessive by nature, quick to temper, and utterly unpredictable when roused. All in all, not someone you wanted on your case.

And boy, could this guy hold a grudge.

The other man was talking again, something on the news program having caught his attention. “Son of a bitch!” he drawled, appearing rapt, and Thierry turned and peered at the screen to see what he was looking at. A young man was speaking into a barrage of microphones. “ _My desire to impress both my peers and the world at large drove me to an immoral and unethical act. My thesis ‘The Sentinel’ is a fraud…”_

There was more, stuff which totally failed to hold Thierry’s admittedly imperfect attention. But the other guy seemed totally floored by it. “Well, hell,” he said. “Ellison, you son of a bitch. I _knew_ it. I fucking _knew_ there was something weird about you!” He whistled wonderingly. “And you left your hippie pal to take the heat. Fucking asshole.”

Thierry’s brief curiosity expired, and he ceased to pay attention. But as he left the room to head to his therapy session, the other patient’s ominous words followed him down the corridor. “Wait ‘til I get out of here, Ellison. You think it’s over – but it’s not over. It won’t be over until I _say_ it’s over!”

***

Blair glanced up from his task of stuffing clothes into a backpack. Jim’s face was closed off, expressionless, as though none of this was having any impact on him at all.

But Blair knew him much better than that.

“Look, man, it’s just for a little while,” Blair attempted, trying to breach the hedge of thorns surrounding his partner. “I’ll come back, I _swear_. I just need some space to make my decision. Okay? There’s just…” he shrugged, “…just too much going on here. Too many distractions. I can’t think straight.”

“Whatever,” Jim answered, his feelings concealed behind an impenetrable barrier of feigned indifference.

Inwardly, Blair sighed. Jim wasn’t making this easy. “Look,” Blair tried again. “I’m at this giant crossroads in my life, all right? I can’t accept the badge, just like _that_.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize the point. “I have to be sure it’s the right thing to do. That I’m doing it for the right reasons. I have to consider all the angles, Jim, because if I make the wrong decision now, we’ll both end up regretting it.”

Jim didn’t answer, his light eyes focused far off in the distance, as though he could see through the wall of Blair’s tiny bedroom to the street outside.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Blair completed his task in silence. He hoisted the now full pack onto his shoulder, and started for the door. On the way, he paused a moment. “I’ll come back, Jim,” he dropped into Ellison’s silence. “Whatever I decide, I’ll come back, okay?”

It was the heart of the matter, Blair knew. In response, Jim glanced at him. “Take care of yourself, Chief,” he murmured softly, before looking off into the imaginary distance again.

Blair nodded, a lump in his throat. “You too, man.”

An odd duality dogged Blair’s every step as he made his way out of the apartment and down to the street below. A sense of profound relief that at last he was going to get some breathing space, coupled with a powerful reluctance to walk out of the door, surprising in its intensity. It was only once he was finally in his car and driving on the freeway a while later, heading northbound past the city limits, that he finally breathed easier.

And that was exactly what he needed. To breathe. To consider the future without Jim’s pressurizing presence or any other distractions weighing down on his chest.

***

Standing silent sentry in Blair’s room, Jim listened as the sound of the Volvo’s engine gradually got further away, eventually merging tributary-like with the distant roaring of the freeway rapids. Jeez, he thought. If only Blair knew how far, and how precisely, he could track that one engine among all the thousands of others in the city.

He imagined the kid’s excitement if he told him. ‘Wow, that’s amazing!’ Blair would say. ‘We need to do some tests on that, man!’

Except that there were any number of things wrong with that picture. Blair wasn’t a kid any longer, was he? The endearing – and often irritating – enthusiasm of the young man who had bounced, without invitation, into Jim’s life, had been tempered and honed in the furnace of their relationship into what passed, in the Sandburg zone, for maturity. And Blair wouldn’t be likely to suggest tests, not anymore. The tenacious researcher had gone the same way as the kid – subsumed and amalgamated into Jim’s ‘Dirty Harry’ world as thoroughly as Blair’s car now merged into the distant traffic.

It had been Blair’s choice, Jim told himself firmly. Blair got a kick out of all that macho shit, no matter how much he paraded around in love-beads and protested that he was a lover, not a fighter. Hell, his research interest before they even met had been tribal warrior cultures, for Christ’s sake! Blair compared basketball players to gladiators, and got excited about boxing matches. And he’d gotten off _big_ time on the idea of playing cop right from the start – he was the biggest adrenaline junkie Jim had ever met.

But Jim missed the other face of Blair, sometimes. The over-enthusiastic, slightly naïve grad student; the pushy little bastard of a geek who had bullied him into acceptance of his senses. The new, improved version that had been reborn at the fountain had been muted, somehow, becoming older and wiser. No longer pushy. Far less of an observer, far more of a cop.

Far more miserable.

“Damn,” Jim said aloud. There it was again – his old friend Guilt, back to kick him in the nuts. “It’s not my fault, Sandburg,” he growled, refusing to accept culpability for whatever the hell had gone wrong between the two of them, his voice startlingly loud in the empty room. “You wrote the goddamn book! You did this, not me!”

But despite Jim’s attempt to shift the blame, he was plagued for the rest of the day by images of Blair’s hurt expression staring back at him: over a pile of packed boxes, on a beach, in the bullpen.

And on a TV screen when, like the loyal soldier he really was, Blair threw himself on his own sword to protect Jim.

***

Blair’s sense of relief, of escape, lasted throughout the rest of the day. He had no clear goal in mind as a destination, and it was refreshing to just go with the flow for once, driving pretty much at random, stopping when he felt like it, and taking whatever turnoff took his fancy without thinking about direction. Eventually, when night fell, he pulled in at a basic roadside motel and checked into a room.

Now that he’d stopped, and had nothing but badly-papered walls to contemplate, anxiety crept back in, robbing him of the sense of freedom his precipitous flight had lent him. In his mind’s eye, images rolled past constantly, like poorly-edited news footage. Most vivid of all was Megan’s shocked expression when she fell in the bullpen, stricken by the Iceman’s bullet. The horror of that image was only supplanted by one other – the look that Jim had directed at Blair at the height of their discord, which had said more clearly than any words exactly how despicable Jim had thought him to be at that moment.

Mixed up with it all, a sense memory replayed over and over – the feel of a leather case landing with a slap in his palm, heavy with the weight of the gold badge it carried; every bit as heavy as the sense of regret that now weighed him down. As heavy as his heart, because he knew, deep within himself, that there was no way he could take the offer the badge symbolized, no matter how much he wanted to; there were too many obstacles in his path. And if he didn’t take it, there was nothing left for him in Cascade.

Eventually, he slept, his pillow wet with tears.

By early morning, he was on the move again, his restlessness eating at him and making him impatient to keep going. Eventually, he knew, he’d have to stop running and really start thinking, to work out where he was going to go from here. But for now, he resolved to drive until the urge to flee had passed, until he’d put enough space between him and Cascade that he could look back at everything that had happened dispassionately and with a clear head.

He had no idea how long that would take, or if it was even possible.

It was late in the afternoon when his fatigue began to catch up with him. He’d found himself heading east and then north during the day, and was now out in the sticks somewhere way north of Spokane. He had a vague notion that he might head for Canada, although he would leave that trip until tomorrow. The sunlight, broken intermittently by the trees along the side of the road, had started to bother his eyes, even though he was wearing his shades, the flashing light making his head throb.

“Damn,” Blair said out loud, annoyed at the recurrence of pain. He’d been getting a lot of headaches recently, and had, in fact, had a really bad migraine just the other day, shortly after Simon and the others had surprised him in the bullpen by offering him an upgrade to Detective. With all the stress he’d been under since their lives had turned upside down, it had been no wonder. The visual disturbance he had going on now felt like another migraine coming on, although he hoped this one wouldn’t turn out to be quite the doozy that one had been; it had been the most agonizing headache he’d ever suffered.

Hoping that a bit of a break from the flashing late-afternoon sunlight might help, Blair pulled off the road he was on at the next exit. A signpost promised a gas station and diner a few miles after the turnoff; and as he approached the entrance a few minutes later, he slowed the car, signaled, and turned in there.

Or he thought he did.

He pictured himself in his mind’s eye turning the wheel hard right but, strangely, his body didn’t respond. As lights went off like press flashbulbs before his eyes, his head pounding, he was only dimly aware that the car continued straight ahead, and he had no time to wonder or worry about what was happening, as it careered onwards and off the road, eventually coming to an abrupt stop with a sickening crash and a jolt to his whole, unresponsive body. As blackness descended, he vaguely – and oddly without concern – wondered what he’d hit.

***

Jim still felt somewhat morose the morning after Sandburg had left. As he meandered about his quiet apartment, he tried to put out of his mind the lingering disquiet that plagued him, but found it increasingly impossible to keep his mind off his missing partner. And, as the morning extended into afternoon, his fears crystallized into one inescapable conclusion.

Blair wasn’t going to come back. Jim knew it, deep in his bones.

Desperate to put his certainty that their partnership was over out of his mind, Jim hobbled down to his truck later in the day. He had offered to pick up a few groceries for Simon, as his captain was still recuperating from the serious injuries he had sustained at the hands of Zeller. As the less wounded of the two, Jim determinedly thrust the pain from his own injured leg to one side, and braved the supermarket.

As he pulled up outside Simon’s house, the door opened. His boss must have been watching for him. Leaning heavily on the doorframe, Banks acknowledged him with a grin. “Jim.”

“Hi, Simon.” Jim hefted the groceries in his arms and frowned. “Shouldn’t you be sitting down?”

Banks’s amused gaze roamed pointedly over the location of Ellison’s own injury. He shrugged. “Someone had to open the door. It’s the butler’s day off.”

“Hm.” Ellison acknowledged the sarcasm with an approving grin, as he limped inside. “Daryl gone home, then?” Simon’s son had been staying with him for a while, helping out during his convalescence.

Simon shook his head. “He’s taking a bit of time for himself. He got a call from a friend. A _girl_ friend,” he added, as though that explained everything.

“Oh,” acknowledged Jim in understanding, as he moved past Simon further into the house. “Riiiiight.”

Jim went straight into the kitchen to put away the groceries. Retrieving two beers from the fridge, he joined Simon in the living room, and handed one over. Banks, now sitting on the couch, took it without a word. Jim raised an eyebrow. “I forgot to ask – is that okay with your meds?”

Simon took a swig. “This is _one_ of my meds,” he said. Then, at Jim’s startled look, added, “One won’t hurt. It will help my state of mind, at least.”

“Problems?”

Simon sighed. “I’m glad you came over. I was going to call you and Blair later, once I’d figured out how to tell you.”

That sounded ominous. “About?” prompted Jim.

Banks sighed again, looking grim. “The Chief called,” he said. “It seems our clever plan to get Sandburg online as a detective ain’t gonna wash with the brass. They’re rescinding the offer.”

“Damn!” The news hit Jim like a smack in the face. “What the hell for? Blair’s an asset to the department! How can they not see that?”

Simon shrugged. “The words ‘scandal’, ‘liability’ and ‘integrity of the police department’ were mentioned. It seems Blair was too quick to call himself a fraud at the press conference. They believe that label is going to stick, and no amount of spin will get rid of it. The first time he ends up in court to give evidence, his integrity will be put in question, and it will all get raked up again.”

“Jesus.” Jim ran a hand over his face. “This’ll devastate him, you know,” he said. “At the moment, it’s the best option he has.” More to the point, as Jim well knew, it eliminated the one major reason Blair had to come back. It seemed that Jim’s bad feeling earlier had been akin to a premonition after all.

“The best offer he _had_ ,” Banks corrected Jim’s observation. “The offer’s not on the table anymore.”

“What the hell are we gonna do?” Jim asked. “And how the hell do we tell him that, after everything that’s happened?”

“I’ll tell him,” Simon said. “You can help deal with the fallout.” He gestured toward the phone on the table by the couch. “You’d better call him, Jim, get him over here. Better to get this over with.”

Jim shook his head. “He’s not at home. He went out of town for a while to think about his options. I don’t know where he’s headed.”

“Shit.” Banks rubbed his eyes, looking tired. “Did he take his cell phone?”

Jim shrugged. “He took it, but he asked me not to call him unless it was an emergency. He said he needed some space.”

“Jim,” Banks said seriously, “If he decides while he’s gone to take the offer we made, and comes back with a buzz-cut all ready for the academy, this is going to be a whole lot harder for him to deal with. I know what he said, but I think this _qualifies_ as an emergency. I think you should call him.”

Jim looked at him suspiciously. “I thought _you_ were going to tell him?”

The captain grinned. “I’m delegating.”

“Riiiiight.”

***

“Sir? Sir, are you all right?”

Through the pounding in his head, Blair could hear the voice, and understand the words. But no matter how hard he tried, his mouth wouldn’t respond when he tried to answer. All that came out instead was a long, drawn-out groan, which frightened him with its raw incoherency.

Another voice, a woman. “Sir, look, don’t move, okay? I called an ambulance; it should be here soon.”

Don’t move? Blair _couldn’t_ move. Nothing was working, nothing responded to his mental commands. He felt like a puppet with the strings cut.

The voices were talking to each other now, oblivious of the fact he could hear them. “I think he fell asleep at the wheel,” the man said. “His car just went straight off the road. Maybe he’s drunk.”

 _Hey, guys,_ Blair wanted to say. _I’m here, okay? I can hear every word you’re saying._ But all that came out was another tortured groan.

“It’s okay, sir,” the woman said in response, her voice in his ear as she apparently moved closer to lean over him, speaking slowly as though to an idiot or a child. “Just relax. Help is on the way.” Her voice quieted as she moved away again, and he heard her say, “Maybe he had a heart attack?”

“He’s too young for that,” the guy answered. “Heart attacks only happen to old people. Mind you, it’s hard to tell how old he is, with that weird deformity and all.” Before Blair had a chance to wonder what the insensitive idiot meant by ‘weird deformity’, the man went on, “At least he’s still breathing. But I think his neck’s broken.”

That set Blair’s heart to pounding in unabashed terror and, in desperation, he tried to make his limbs work, if only to prove the speaker wrong. To his surprise, it worked – after a fashion. His left arm reached out, and hit the dashboard clumsily. But his head lolled on his chest, his torso held upright by the pressure of the seatbelt, and he couldn’t find the energy or coordination to lift it.

A noise interrupted his struggle to move. His cell phone was ringing in his backpack, somewhere behind him.

Blair desperately wanted to answer it, needing with every fiber of his being for it to be Jim. Because, in all the scrapes he’d had during the past few years, including the several kidnappings he’d endured, Jim had always been there at his back, helping him out during the times he’d been unable to help himself. He had no doubt that his friend would be there for him in this crisis too, despite all that had gone on. Straining desperately, he willed his body to reach out to it, or for the people standing around to hear it and answer it.

But his body refused to obey his commands, the phone kept ringing, the good Samaritans kept talking, and Blair couldn’t do a goddamned thing about any of it. He’d never, in his entire life, felt so incredibly helpless and frustrated.

And, he had to admit it, utterly terrified.

***

To Jim’s frustration, the phone rang several times, then went onto voicemail. “Chief,” Jim said at the beep, “it’s me. Something urgent’s come up, and I need to talk to you. Call me.” As he concluded the call, he looked over at Simon. “He’s not answering,” he said. “But he has it switched on, at least, and he’s still in range. He could still be driving.”

“Try again later,” Simon suggested.

“I will.” Jim rubbed his eyes tiredly, then straightened up. No point in dwelling on what couldn’t be changed; they might as well kick back a bit in the meantime, until they managed to get hold of Sandburg. “Feel like some takeout? The Seahawks are playing the Jags in a few minutes.”

Simon nodded. “May as well. Mexican? There’s that place on Washington that delivers.”

“You betcha,” Jim agreed readily. “Sandburg won’t eat that stuff with me.”

Simon gestured toward the phone. “Call them, then. I’ll have steak quesadillas. Get some salsa, guacamole and sour cream as well. Oh, and tortilla chips.”

“What am I today, your secretary?” Jim groused as he dutifully dialed.

Simon just grinned.

***

_“Patient is a white male, approximately twenty-five to thirty-five years of age, involved in single car MVA…”_

Blair was drifting; floating in a current of air.

_“Pupils are equal and reactive, there is a right facial droop with flattening of the right naso-labial fold…”_

It was bliss – the pounding, percussive pain that had prevented his rest was nearly gone, and he hoped that very soon he’d be able to slip from this comfortable doze, into deep, blessed sleep.

_“Blood pressure one-hundred-and-forty over eighty, pulse ninety-seven, respirations upper twenties. Rhythm is regular, respirations are unlabored…”_

He just wished those voices would shut up. _Hey, guys, can’t you see I’m trying to get some sleep, here?_

_“No cyanosis, no contusions or lacerations observed.  Peripheral pulses are intact, no pedal edema noted…”_

And man, whatever he was lying on was hard. And since when had his nice, natural down pillows transformed into this… thing around his neck?

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

One of the voices finally penetrated, forcing Blair up from the depths. Resentful that his peace had been so rudely interrupted, Blair opened one eye.

The other seemed, oddly, to be stuck.

A man was hovering above him, his face inches from Blair’s. “Sir, can you feel my hand? Can you squeeze my fingers, sir?”

Blair tried, he honestly did. He wasn’t trying to be awkward, but he just couldn’t do it.

The guy didn’t seem upset with him, however. “Sir, can you put out your tongue?”

Sure! Blair could do that.

A reassuring hand patted him on the shoulder, then the man disappeared from his field of vision. Blair tried to track him, but he couldn’t move his head. Instead, he drifted off again as the voices spoke somewhere off to the side.

_“Patient is unable to grip with right hand. Symptoms indicate a cerebrovascular accident, involving left side MCA distribution. We’re ready to transport now…”_

Suddenly, Blair’s bed was flying, and the motion finally lulled him to sleep. 

***

The Seahawks were winning, much to Jim’s disgust, when his cell phone rang. He answered, not glancing at the number, still engrossed in the game. “Ellison,” he said, half expecting it to be Sandburg. Simon, evidently, had the same thought, as he used the remote to turn the sound down slightly on the TV, and looked at Jim expectantly.

_“May I speak with Detective James Ellison, please?”_

“That’s me,” Jim confirmed, shaking his head at Simon to indicate that it wasn’t Blair.

 _“Detective Ellison,”_ the voice said. _“I’m calling from the Sacred Heart Medical Center in Spokane. I have you listed as the emergency contact for a Mister Blair Sandburg?”_

Jim’s blood ran cold, and he waved urgently at Simon, who turned off the TV with a questioning look. “Yeah, I’m Blair’s emergency contact. Is he all right?”

_“Mister Sandburg is still being treated, sir, so I’m sorry I can’t answer that right now. He was brought in to our E.R. a short while ago.”_

“What happened?” Jim was already standing, and putting on his jacket, subsuming his formless worry under a professional façade. Get the facts, assess the information. Don’t kill the messenger.

_“All that I can tell you is that he was involved in a traffic accident.”_

“How bad is it?” Jim asked, glancing Simon who, having gotten the gist of the matter from hearing Jim’s side of the conversation, had hauled himself laboriously off the couch, and was putting on his own coat, his face grim.

 _“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t give you any more details,”_ the voice said. _“You’ll need to talk to the attending physician, and she’s in with Mister Sandburg now.”_

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Jim said, and concluded the call. He looked at Simon worriedly, not sure how to find the words.

But he didn’t have to. “Come on, Jim,” Simon said, moving toward the door as fast as he was able. “Let’s go.”

***

Voices speaking strange jargon, bright lights, noise.

It was getting hard to keep track of it all.

Blair wanted to sleep, but the real world pulled at him, dragging him reluctantly up for air, and he emerged spluttering, unable to fight the drag as the current tried to pull him under again.

“Mister Sandburg? Sir, are you with me?”

Blair tried hard to focus. A woman, wearing the white coat of a doctor, was standing over him. He tried to speak – _Where am I? What happened?_ – but all that came out was a long, animalistic groan.

The dreadful sound unlocked his memory. He’d crashed his car. He’d gone off the road, and been unable to move.

The woman was speaking, and he tried to focus on her voice, use it as an anchor. “Mister Sandburg?” she was saying. “Sir, I need you to calm down for me, okay? You’re in good hands, and you’re going to be fine.”

It was working; Blair was breathing easier, getting his panic under control. He made what he hoped was a questioning sound – although it was actually an embarrassing grunt – and fixed his gaze on her pointedly.

She smiled, and patted his shoulder. “You’re doing fine,” she said. “In a moment, we’re taking you for a few tests. Just try to relax, huh?” She moved away, and Blair found himself gazing at a stark, white clinical ceiling.

Relax? Okay. He’d try. But pretty soon, he wanted some answers.

***

The drive from Cascade to Spokane usually took about seven hours in light traffic, but with Jim driving – bad leg or no bad leg – they made it in six and a half. Simon made no protest, despite the fact that they had taken his car so that he could ride more comfortably. As they progressed along the route, Simon made frequent inquiries by cell phone to the medical center where Blair was being treated, to check on his condition. But the calls he made elicited no further information other than what they’d already been told.

At least, Simon thought with relief, once they finally arrived at their destination, the kid was still alive. That had to mean something, right?

And finally, it looked like they were about to find out how Blair was doing. Simon watched from across the room as the doctor who’d been treating Blair spoke to Jim. Fidgeting in the wheelchair he’d had enough presence of mind to insist they bring with them – he’d had no idea how much hanging around they’d need to do while waiting to see Blair, and he wanted to be mobile if they had to move quickly to the other side of the hospital – he observed their body language surreptitiously.

The doctor was a professional. Her poker-face gave nothing away but, for once, Jim was not the equal of that kind of subterfuge. He looked as though his world was ending.

A final word exchanged, and a reassuring pat on the shoulder for Simon’s best detective, then the doctor headed back to the room where Blair was apparently being treated. And Jim remained where he was, looking broken, lost inside whatever thoughts were circulating in his head after the bombshell the doctor had dropped.

And bombshell it was, to be certain, given Jim’s reaction. Different possibilities, all of them awful, raced through Simon’s mind, as he slowly rolled over toward Jim, giving the other man a little time to compose himself. All Simon knew was that Blair had been in a car accident. Flashes of Blair with brain damage, or Blair paralyzed, ran through his mind. He fervently hoped, as he reached his friend’s side, that his own wheelchair was not a premonition of Blair’s doom.

Jim looked up as Simon approached, and shook his head, as if he couldn’t find the words. There was a suspicion of moisture in the corner of his eyes.

“Jim.” Simon put just enough of a command tone into his voice to get Jim’s attention, hoping it would be an anchor for his friend. “How bad is it?”

“He, ah…” Jim blinked, and looked into the middle distance. “It’s pretty bad, Simon,” he said. “It’s something… unexpected.”

“What do you mean, unexpected?” Simon prompted. “He was in a car crash, right?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah he was. But it was pretty minor, apparently. He went off the road, hit a tree. But he just came away with bruises from that. It’s… it’s what made him come off the road that’s the problem.”

Simon just cocked his head, giving Jim the time he needed to find the words. But his mind was racing, exploring the possibilities.

He didn’t even come close.

“Simon,” Jim said gravely, as if pronouncing sentence on Sandburg, “Blair’s had a stroke.”

Dear god. Before he could control the protest that fell from his lips, Simon hissed, “Jim, that’s ridiculous! He’s not even thirty, for Christ’s sake! Is the doctor sure?”

Jim nodded. “The doctor I spoke to just now is a neurologist. She was brought in to consult on Blair’s case. They just got back the results of the CAT scan and some of the other tests they did when he was first admitted. She’s sure.”

Dumbstruck, Simon could only look back at his friend in shock, seeing in Jim’s eyes the mirror of his own incredulous – and devastated – reaction.

***

Jim’s thoughts were in turmoil.

Physical injury and he were old acquaintances. He was well used to dealing with gunshot wounds, broken bones, lacerated skin – all hazards of his chosen profession. He’d also been around to see Blair though those things as well, as the grad student’s lifestyle had gradually morphed into the life of someone who was a cop in all but name.

But this? Debilitating illness, disability, infirmity?

Jim still remembered with horror the short time that his Father’s elderly mother had stayed with them, when he was a child, before going into nursing care. She’d had a stroke too.

Jim had been eight years old at the time, and he remembered watching from the doorway of his grandmother’s bedroom as Sally had tended the invalid. Sarah Ellison’s face had become an unrecognizable, ghastly mask, one entire side sunken into distorted paralysis. The sounds from her lopsided mouth had not been words, just awful noises which terrified the young boy who’d sneaked a peek.

He’d had nightmares afterwards, seeing the awful thing in the bed loping after him with Hammer Horror intent, zombie-like and malevolent. The transformation of the comfortable and familiar into the grotesque and sinister had shocked him deeply and, when his grandmother had finally been taken away by ambulance to the private nursing home his father had arranged for her, young Jim had been relieved beyond imagining.

He’d never seen her again, because the poor woman had died shortly afterwards, a secondary stroke putting a swift end to her suffering. Jim had gone to the funeral, acting every bit as William Ellison’s dutiful son, but inside had hoarded his guilty secret – his overwhelming sense of relief that the monster of his nightmares was gone for good. It was as if that one vision – the creature in the bed – had destroyed any good memories he’d had about his grandmother before she succumbed to illness.

As he grew older, he looked back on that childish reaction with no small amount of shame. But, nevertheless, a sense of revulsion at the idea of chronic illness had stayed with him all his life. It was one reason he’d been impelled to take care of his own body. Sandburg had occasionally decried his choice of diet but, despite a few innocuous vices, Jim was more than aware of how to look after himself. He ate (for the most part) sensibly, didn’t smoke, drank only in moderation, and worked out religiously.

Embracing his hazardous career wholeheartedly – first in the army, then in the police force – Jim had no problem with the prospect of being cut down by an enemy’s bullet. If truth be told, he’d far rather that than succumb, like his grandmother, to horrifying disability in his old age, followed by undignified death. ‘Live fast and die young’ was a concept he could buy into without any difficulty whatsoever.

It was impossible, he was finding, to imagine Blair in his grandmother’s place. Blair was young, not yet thirty, as Simon had rightly said. He was fit, healthy, and took care of himself. He had a quick brain and a quirky sense of humor, as well as courage way beyond the norm. He was easy on the eye, popular with women, in the prime of his life.

How the hell could he have had a stroke? This could not, Jim kept telling himself, be happening. It was inconceivable and unacceptable. There had to be some mistake.

Jim’s musing was interrupted when Doctor Farrell emerged once again from the treatment room. “Detective Ellison?” she said.

Jim stood. “Yeah, Doc. How is he?” To his chagrin, he’d not even been able to make himself use his hyper-senses to listen in to what had been going on in the room that held Blair. Mundane methods of inquiry were all he felt able to handle right now.

She smiled reassuringly. “He’s scheduled for some more tests in the next little while, but right now he’s resting comfortably enough. He’s conscious, and a little scared, I don’t doubt; possibly also a bit confused, which is usual in the early stages of this kind of cerebral insult. I’ve told him what’s going on, but I think it would help to see a familiar face. Would you like to sit with him until we’re ready to move him up to ICU?”

Jim was appalled at the reluctance that swept over him. Ruthlessly, he thrust his reaction deep down inside. “Sure,” he said.

The doctor, it seemed, was apparently not unaware of how hard this was for him, however. “Before you go in,” she said, “I should warn you to prepare yourself. Blair has suffered some facial paralysis, and you may find his appearance a little shocking. Also, he’s unable to speak right now.”

Any questions he would have liked to ask died unborn in Jim’s throat at the mental image that conjured up – his grandmother, and the dreadful grunting noises she had made as she lay twisted and incapable in bed.

Luckily for Jim, however, Simon was still in control of his faculties. “I’m Captain Simon Banks,” he was saying. “Blair and Jim are two of my men. They’re also both good friends of mine, and I’m going to be here to support them. Can you tell us what Blair’s prognosis is? It might help if Jim has some facts to reassure Blair with when he goes in.”

She shook Simon’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Captain Banks. I’m Doctor Farrell, the neurologist in charge of Blair’s treatment. I wish I could tell you what you want to hear, but I’m sorry, it’s too soon. On the positive side, he’s conscious and reasonably aware, and that’s always a good sign in these circumstances. But the next few hours are crucial. How much of a recovery is likely depends on what happens in the next couple of days.”

Simon nodded his understanding. “Can I go in as well?”

Doctor Farrell shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can only let one of you in right now. The room is pretty small, and not really suitable for more than one visitor. A bed is being prepared in ICU for Blair right now, and he’ll be transferred there soon. When he’s settled, you can visit with pleasure. He’s going to need a lot of support, so it’s good that you’re here.” She turned to Jim again. “Detective Ellison? Are you ready?”

Jim took a deep breath, wishing he could run, and knowing he could not. “I’m ready.” And he followed Doctor Farrell into the treatment room.

***

It was weird, mused Blair, as he lay in the treatment room bed that he’d been in for the past several hours. It was like being trapped in his own head. Once again he strained frantically against the invisible bonds, trying to break out.

The heart monitor once again registered his intermittent panic, the rapid-fire blips adding to his sense of urgency. The nurse who was hovering around patted him on the shoulder. “Try to relax, Mister Sandburg,” she said. “You’re doing just fine.”

Doing fine, huh? He couldn’t move or feel anything at all on his right side, including his face, and was, he didn’t mind admitting, scared out of his mind. And what the hell was the use of this kind of fight or flight response, anyway, if he was incapable of actually doing either?

 _Calm down, man,_ he told himself firmly, trying to breathe slowly and so slow his racing heart. _Just calm down. Just take each moment as it comes. You’re alive, you’re in the hospital. You’re still able to think. You can get through this._

He’d had a cerebrovascular accident, the doctor had told him, just as the EMTs who’d brought him in had suspected. In layman’s terms, a stroke, most probably caused by an obstruction in one of the arteries feeding blood to his brain. The worst of it – unless he had another ticking time-bomb in his head the CAT scan had failed to discover – was already over.

He really was doing okay, according to the doctor, as far as stroke victims went – he had remained mostly conscious throughout and, despite some initial confusion, he was now aware of what was going on. He still had vision and hearing in his affected side, he hadn’t lost the ability to swallow, and his breathing was unaffected. It had been eight hours now since it happened, and his symptoms seemed to have reached a plateau. He still felt like shit, but the worst of the pounding in his head had subsided, at least.

Now he just needed to be patient, to give himself time to recover. Yeah, it was okay. He was going to be fine. It was all freewheeling from here. No problem, man.

But he hated feeling so helpless, like a giant rag doll. And the doctor had talked about other stuff, including the minor possibility of surgery depending on the results of the endless tests he’d been subjected to, and those which were scheduled for his immediate future. And he was scared that they would open up his head, but he still might never get any better than this, doomed to spend the rest of his life paralyzed and unable to speak.

He might get worse.

He might even die.

Shit.

The heart monitor went crazy once more, as the fear and despair that was lurking just under the surface of his thoughts burst free once again. Just as the door opened, admitting Doctor Farrell. And oh god, thank god, Jim.

***

Dreading what he was going to see with every fiber of his being, Jim at first avoided looking at the still figure on the bed that dominated the center of the room. He heard Doctor Farrell say, “Mister Sandburg, your friend Jim is here to see you.” Belatedly, Jim became aware of the rapid beep of a heart monitor, which speeded up even more at the Doctor’s words, and in response, the Doctor pulled out her bedside manner. “Try to relax, Blair. You’re in good hands, and you’re doing as well as can be expected right now.”

The mechanical evidence of his friend’s panic finally shook Jim out of his self-indulgent introspection. Furious with himself for being so spineless, he moved over to the bed, and finally fixed his eyes on the figure laying there, still expecting, somehow, to see something reminiscent of his childhood nightmare.

But what he found instead was his friend’s familiar face looking up at him, the right eye closed in drooping immobility, and terror shining out of the other clear, blue eye. And something else. Something he hadn’t banked on, but which twisted his heart painfully in his chest.

Trust.

“Oh, Chief,” Jim breathed, as the remnants of his dread were washed away in a rushing tide of grief and affection. Without any further hesitation, he reached out, his hands framing Blair’s lopsided face, wiping away with his thumbs the involuntary tears which ran from his friend’s sagging eye and its unaffected mate, and the others that followed in their wake. “Easy,” he murmured, leaning closer. “I’m here, Blair. It’s gonna be okay, buddy.” Jim allowed his sudden, fervent conviction of that fact to seep into his voice, as he held Blair’s desperate one-eyed gaze with his own. “You hear me? Everything’s gonna be okay.”

And he vowed that he would not consider, from this moment on, any other possibility.

***

“Oh shit!”

Thierry looked up from the comic book he was reading, at the imperative tone in the other man’s voice. In the corner, the evening news droned on uninspiringly from the television, presumably showing something that had captured the other man’s attention. Vaguely curious as to what his fellow patient found so interesting, Thierry tuned in.

Footage of a young man, standing on a podium in front of a barrage of reporters, was being flashed across the screen. Thierry found the young man’s face vaguely familiar, although he could not remember why.

The anchorwoman’s voice over was saying, _“… admitted to Spokane General Hospital this afternoon. Sandburg, aged twenty-nine, the former Rainier grad student and police observer who denounced his thesis, ‘The Sentinel’, as a fraud during the Bartley affair, suffered a stroke, according to hospital sources, and is said to be in a ‘critical’ condition.…”_

Thierry’s companion seemed disappointed. “You’d better get over it, man,” he was muttering under his breath. “Jesus, hippie, I need you if this is going to go down how I want. You’d damned well better get over it.”

His attention span at its limit, Thierry went back to his comic book.

***

The next few days passed in a nightmarish blur for Blair. Test followed test, each one more uncomfortable and unpleasant than the last. Two more CAT scans, a horribly claustrophobic MRI, an arteriogram performed under sedation, ultrasounds, swallowing tests, blood test, after blood test, after blood test.

The one positive aspect of the whole ordeal was that Jim was there to provide constant support and, during the rare times he wasn’t around, Simon took his place. And helpless and voiceless as he was, Blair had never been more grateful for the support of his friends.

The first night Blair spent in the ICU, he found himself plagued by nightmares; awful visions of the time he’d been helpless in the hands of David Lash, tied up and unable to move. Frequently his mind drifted, and he was a little unclear about the boundary between fantasy and reality, believing, during some waking intervals, that he was still Lash’s prisoner after all, and that everything since had been a dream.

It was terrible, during his moments of lucidity, to be unable to articulate what he was experiencing. The animal-like incoherency of the sounds that came out of his own mouth horrified him, though he could no more stop them than he could stop the nightmares.

But each time he jerked to awareness, crying out wordlessly in raw terror and unable to move, a quiet voice and cool, steady hand were there to bring comfort, to reassure. Jim’s face, hovering inches from his own, holding Blair’s teary-eyed gaze in the calm, confident embrace of his own eyes. And gradually, although the inescapable reality of his immobility stayed with Blair, he relaxed into the care of the medical staff who were helping him, and the security of his friends’ unflagging care.

After all, what other choice did he have?

The verdict after the myriad tests that Blair was subjected to was no different than it had been at the beginning – he had suffered an ischemic stroke, resulting in partial paralysis of the right side of his body and impaired speech. The one positive thing to come out of it all was that it appeared that surgery would not be beneficial. Instead, treatment consisted of doses of intravenous anti-coagulant drugs to dissolve the clot that was responsible, and thereby prevent further damage.

It seemed that the bad migraine-like headaches Blair had suffered, in the days leading up to the stroke, had been an early warning sign of what was going to happen. Somewhat ironically, they were known to the medical profession as ‘sentinel headaches’, a fact that, to Blair’s bemusement, Jim failed to find funny, despite his usual appreciation of black humor.

The one question Blair had to ask himself, once he began to feel more aware and able to analyze his predicament, was why it had happened. He was still young, took good care of himself and had, until this, been in good shape.

The likelihood, according to the doctor in charge of his treatment, was that Blair’s condition was caused by a minor injury he had sustained when Zeller had blasted up the bullpen, resulting in the formation of a blood clot in his carotid artery. Like many there that day, he’d been hit by flying debris, but since so many people had been injured in more serious ways than Blair – including Jim, who’d been shot in the leg – he’d dismissed the seemingly innocuous bruise which had developed on the side of his neck as being of no consequence.

In layman’s terms, the clot had basically obstructed blood flow to part of his brain, and the brain cells thus affected had died or been damaged. Only time would tell how much regeneration was possible, and how much functionality of the affected areas – the right side of his body and his speech – would return. It was unlikely, however, given the typical prognosis of strokes of this kind, that he’d ever fully regain the level of health he had enjoyed before the stroke.

It seemed, therefore, that the prospect of Blair becoming a cop was a moot point after all. The decision had been taken out of all of their hands, even if the powers-that-be hadn’t retracted the offer – which fact Blair was now aware of. And he was infinitely more pragmatic about that decision than either Jim or Simon, by all appearances. What was the point of lamenting the loss of something he’d never really had?

The care Blair was getting in Spokane was second to none. But after several days, when the time came for him to be moved out of ICU and into a Neurological ward, arrangements were made for Blair to be transported back to Cascade, despite the excellent facilities at Sacred Heart for stroke patients. “It makes sense,” Jim told him. “Simon needs to get back home – he’s still having treatment himself, and he wants to stay nearby, in case we need him. Let’s do this for him, huh?”

In case _we_ need him, Jim had said. Throughout this nightmare, Jim had been with Blair every step of the way, as though there was no question that he should be anywhere but at Blair’s side. In the beginning, that had been Blair’s lifeline; he had no idea how he’d have gotten through the first few terrible, confusing days since it had happened without Jim, as well as Simon, being there to back him up.

But now, he was beginning to think for himself again, and he was feeling a need to assert his self-reliance. Jim’s constant presence wasn’t cloying, yet; indeed, as often as not, Blair still felt pretty damn emotionally dependent on his friend, and couldn’t help himself from expressing it, as though the drugs he was on and his neurological condition eliminated all his self-control.

But he was still an adult, damn it, and not an idiot. The brain damage he’d suffered hadn’t destroyed all of his faculties, and he wanted some answers now – like who the hell was going to pay for the expensive air-ambulance Jim had arranged to take him back to Cascade, as well as the treatment he’d had here in Spokane and the treatment he’d need in the future. He sure as hell had no money, and his medical insurance had gone the way of the dodo when he was kicked out of Rainier.

Blair looked pointedly at Jim, as he had several times to no avail, and made a questioning sound, his vocal abilities still compromised as they were. Man, it sucked not to be able to say what was on his mind.

But Jim just smiled reassuringly. “Look, don’t worry about it Chief, okay? I’ve got it all in hand. Money is the least of our problems; it’s all taken care of. You just focus on getting better, huh? Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Incredulous, Blair raised the one eyebrow he still _could_ raise. How the hell did Jim do that? How could he interpret what Blair was asking with such apparent ease? What, was he telepathic, now?

In answer, Jim just gave him an infuriatingly inscrutable grin.

***

Simon was never more relieved to get home. Sleeping in the motel he and Jim had occupied in Spokane – the latter during the rare times when Jim had actually left Blair’s side – had taken its toll on his healing body. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, he eased himself out of his wheelchair and into his own comfortable armchair.

Joel Taggart, who’d made the more than two-hundred-fifty mile trip to Spokane on a bus to pick him and his car up, and turned right around to drive him back home, emerged from the kitchen with a couple of sodas. As Simon accepted the cold drink gratefully, Joel nodded toward the phone. “Think we should call the hospital, Simon? See if they got in all right?”

Jim had accompanied Blair in the air ambulance trip back to Cascade. There hadn’t been room for more than one passenger, hence Simon’s arrangement with Joel. In answer to his friend’s question, Simon shook his head. “Let’s leave it for now,” he said. “Give them a chance to get settled. I think I’ll just go over and visit tomorrow.”

Joel nodded, hopefully understanding that Simon needed a little bit of time out from the whole sorry mess. It’d been devastating to see what had happened to Blair, but Simon had striven to put his own shock and grief to one side, so that he could support Jim though _his_ support of Blair – and it had been clear that their stricken former observer desperately needed Jim to be strong for him. As a result, Simon was now burned out, both physically and mentally. He really needed a bit of a breather before he started it all over again.

“I’ll head over there later myself,” Joel said in response, thankfully no censure in his voice at Simon’s obvious reluctance. “Just to say hi. I want Blair to know that I’m – that _we’re_ – all rooting for him.”

“Good.” The kid needed all the support he could get. “I’m sure they’ll both be pleased to see you.”

Joel shook his head, once again expressing his sorrow at what had happened to Blair, as he had repeatedly since he’d arrive in Spokane to collect Simon. “This shouldn’t have happened, Simon. He’s too young for this. He’s just too young.”

All Simon could do was nod wordlessly. And say a silent Amen.

***

Clutching his release documents in one hand and his bag of belongings in the other, the newly discharged Conover inmate halted just outside the gate and took in a breath of fresh air.

“Man, that’s good!” he exclaimed, to no-one in particular. “The taste of sweet, sweet freedom.”

A bus was due to arrive at any moment, to take him to the halfway house that had been arranged for him. He’d convinced the orderly on duty that he’d be fine waiting out here for it.

Bullshit. He wasn’t going to wait for anybody – he had more important things to do.

Turning on his heel, the man headed off on foot, already working out the arrangements. “It won’t be long,” he muttered. “Payback time’s comin’, Ellison. But first,” he chuckled, “your little hippie-dippy pal Sandburg and me are gonna have a chat. Oh yeah, a good old chat.”

When the transport bus rolled up a few minutes later, to take the former mental patient to his new, temporary home, there was no sign of him anywhere.

***

If he was still an academic, Blair was sure he’d have been able to get an incredible paper out of this.

The hardest part of this whole desperate situation was the fact that Blair couldn’t articulate what was on his mind at all. As the days went on, it became clear that regaining the ability to speak – if it was ever to return – would be some time off.

As soon as Blair and Jim arrived back in Cascade, and once he got settled in the neurological ward, a succession of friends – all of them from Major Crime, since Blair had so spectacularly lost touch with his academic and other contacts during the press fiasco – descended bearing gifts. His laptop was brought over from the loft, as well as a portable CD player and assortment of music, and books of various kinds. Of all of those, the laptop was the most tremendous thing, because he was able to use it to type one-handed, and at last connect verbally with his constant stream of visitors.

Prior to that, he’d tried writing notes on a pad of paper, but it was tricky, to say the least, to do so. It was hard to scribble with one hand _and_ hold the pad steady, since his other arm didn’t function at all. Plus he was naturally right-handed. His handwriting had never been all that great to begin with – _he_ could read it fine, but other people definitely had trouble interpreting it – and now that he was forced to learn to use his left hand instead, the results were not all that comprehensible even to him. And the effort it took to do all that, considering the exhaustion he was still suffering since the stroke, left him headachy and tense and simply not wanting to make the effort.

The laptop once again opened up a more manageable form of communication for Blair to the outside world. But while it meant he could chat to Simon, and Joel, and Megan – all of whom popped in regularly to see him – he found that he rarely needed to use it to communicate with Jim, his constant shadow. Because to his intense inner-researcher’s delight, it turned out that sentinel abilities were good for far more than just catching bad guys.

It was as if, since the stroke, Jim had developed a sixth sense, a kind of telepathy, in that he seemed to know exactly what Blair was thinking at any given moment.

Well, it seemed like that on the surface, but Blair knew it wasn’t strictly true. To be more accurate, during Blair’s illness and his close proximity to Jim, it appeared that the sentinel had, in essence, fine-tuned his observational skills to the nth degree. He was, it seemed, using his senses to interpret every flinch, every sound, and every body odor that Blair was emitting, and subsequently translating it into language.

If Blair moved a little uncomfortably in the bed, the sentinel’s hand came to hover over his skin, testing his temperature. “Cold, huh, Chief?  I’ll get an extra blanket for you from the nurse.” Another time, Blair licked his lopsided lip and, before he had the chance to make a sound, a straw was positioned at his mouth. “A little dry, Chief? Here you go.” And when his thoughts turned morose, as they frequently did, Jim would look at him sympathetically, even when Blair was certain his face didn’t show any distress to regular eyes. “Don’t worry, buddy,” Jim had said, in many, varied permutations. “We’ll get through this, all right? You just hang in there.”

It was absolutely amazing. Jim was obviously capable of perceiving and interpreting involuntary muscular movement, as well as other subtle physiological cues, to a degree Blair had never suspected was possible. It inevitably got him thinking about the potential sentinels had to not just be tribal guardians, but to be healers as well, since Jim was so good at it. Now there was a thing – had Jim, he wondered, ever considered a career in medicine instead of his chosen path? Blair knew he’d been a medic at one time, so he obviously had some kind of an interest…

His thoughts were interrupted by Jim’s voice. “Sandburg, can you really see me as a doctor? I hate hospitals even more than you do.”

Blair just looked at him incredulously, impressed all over again. Holy freaking hell! How did he _do_ that?

Jim tapped the side of his nose. “Trade secret, Chief.”

***

The kid was doing a whole lot better, Simon realized with relief. Nearly two weeks in the neurological ward at Cascade General, and he was out of any immediate danger. Not only that, but his appearance was almost back to normal. There was still a bit of a facial droop but, overall, he looked pretty much like himself again.

Blair still couldn’t speak, and communicated by tapping one-handed into his laptop and, although able to move the limbs on his affected side in a limited way, he was unable to bear weight on his leg and his fingers and right hand were totally immobile. But all in all, he was doing pretty well for someone who, two weeks ago, had been at death’s door. And the speed of his improvement was a good sign, and boded well for his eventual level of recovery, if what the doctor said was accurate.

According to Jim, Blair was due to be moved to a rehabilitation facility soon, where he would receive intensive physical therapy to try and accelerate his recovery still further. The kid seemed a little antsy about that, but Jim seemed to be set on overruling any protests he made, having gone big-time into big brother mode. And on this visit, Simon had walked in on the two of them in mid-disagreement.

Blair seemed happy to see Simon, and shoot the breeze with him from his hospital bed, but his post-argument irritability still showed, since he kept shooting Ellison ‘I’ll deal with you later’ type looks across the room.

After visiting with Blair for a while, Simon decided to get Jim to one side and find out what the hell was going on between them, that had the kid so wound up. “Hey, Blair, will you be okay if I take this guy off for some coffee? Looks like you both need a break.”

Jim immediately protested. “Simon, you go and bring the coffee back here. I don’t want to leave Sandburg on his own.”

But Blair ignored him. Stabbing at the keyboard of his laptop, Blair typed furiously, “YES! Get him out of my hair, goddamn it – he’s driving me NUTS! And make him tell you how he’s paying for this, PLEASE. He won’t tell me anything!!!”

Simon chuckled at Blair’s inspired verbosity, silent though it was, meeting Blair’s furious expression with amusement. Then he stood and crooked a finger. “Come on, Jim. Coffee, now. And that’s an order!”

Jim stared at him incredulously, at the tone of the command. “You can’t order me – I’m off duty!”

Simon shook his head, then winked sidelong at Blair. “Your ass will be back at your desk next week, Detective. Time you got back in practice, and here’s your first lesson. Me, Captain. You, detective. Coffee, now. Get it?”

Jim gave in and complied, after shooting Blair a look that was equal parts mixed worry and exasperation. And Simon could have sworn that Blair’s smug, slightly lop-sided grin followed them, Cheshire Cat-like, out of the room.

As soon as they were seated in the hospital cafeteria, Simon went on the offensive. “Jim, I know you care about Blair. Hell, I do too.” He paused, and held up a hand warningly. “Don’t tell him I said that.” Then he got serious again. “But when did you last go home, or have any down-time? It’s been nearly three weeks, Jim, and you’ve hardly left his side. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but Sandburg is in a modern hospital here, and is getting good care. Do you really need to be at his side twenty-four seven?”

Jim had the decency to look a little embarrassed. “I’ve been home,” he protested unconvincingly. “And before you try to tell me you’re serious about me going back to work next week, I’ll take unpaid leave. Hell, I’ll resign if I have to. I’m not leaving him, Simon.”

Simon leaned forward. “Jim, your medical leave is due to expire, and as long as the doctor signs you off as fit, I want you back at your desk next week. If I’m well enough for deskwork, so are you. And Blair is doing fine, Jim! He doesn’t need you there every second of the goddamned day!”

“He can’t talk!” Ellison hissed. “What if he has another stroke? Or something happens, and he can’t reach the call button? If I’m here, I can keep an eye on him, far better than the nurses can. I can detect problems quicker than any of the monitors they’ve got him hooked up to. I’m not leaving him!”

Simon fixed Ellison with his best glare. He knew where this was coming from, and he was going to put a stop to it right now. “Jim, none of this is your fault! The last thing Blair needs is you hovering around out of some sense of misplaced guilt!”

“I’m not doing this out of guilt.” Jim’s voice was icy. “I’m doing this because he needs me. Because I’m his partner, and I’m backing him up.” He looked away, then added in a hoarse whisper, “As I should have been doing all along.”

Simon reached across the table, and ignored the unwelcoming flinch when his hand fell on Ellison’s. “Jim,” he said quietly, “Come back to work. He’s going to be getting top-class help when he goes into the rehab center – you said so yourself. Give yourself – and him – a break. Let the medical people do their job, huh?”

Jim shook his head, but Simon could sense him weakening. Maintaining the level of vigilance he’d kept up for the past three weeks, in such emotional circumstances, had taken their toll on Jim, Simon had no doubt.

Feeling that he’d gotten through his friend’s defenses, Simon decided to push a little further, in view of Blair’s impassioned typewritten plea. “And one more thing, Jim,” he said. “Don’t you think it’s time you came clean with the kid? He’s in a private room up there. You paid for an air ambulance as well, not to mention the whole rehab arrangement you’ve made. Is this coming out of your pocket? Because I think Blair really deserves to know.”

Ellison looked at him, and carefully removed his hand from Simon’s. “That’s my business,” he said. “All Blair has to know is that he’s got nothing to worry about.”

Simon didn’t back down. “Ellison,” he said, “Why do I get the feeling I won’t like whatever the hell it is you’ve done to raise the money?”

“Let it go, sir.”

“Jim…” Simon protested.

“Look,” Ellison said, a pained expression on his face, “I did something I should have done a long time ago, okay? Let it rest at that. Please, Simon.” He sighed. “I promise you,” he said, “that you’ll know in good time. But for now, just let it rest, huh?”

“On one condition,” Simon said, pushing his advantage. “Come back to work next week.”

Ellison nodded. “Fine.”

But as they finished drinking their coffee and headed back up to Sandburg’s room, Simon couldn’t help feeling that Jim had given in on the work issue too easily. And it made him worry deeply about whatever it was that Jim had done to raise the money for Blair’s care.

***

As he left the rehabilitation center several weeks later, heading toward the parking lot on his way back to work, Jim was speaking on his cell phone, updating his father on Blair’s condition. “He’s made progress really quickly. He even managed to walk up some steps this morning.”

William Ellison audibly cleared his throat. _“And you say that he’s going to be discharged in a week?”_

“Yeah. He’ll still be getting occupational and speech therapy, but as an outpatient.”

Something in Jim’s voice apparently alerted William that, despite Blair’s miraculous improvement, all was not completely well. _“But…?”_ his dad prompted.

Jim sighed. “He’s still not talking. ‘Aphasia’, they call it. He’s managing the odd word, but more often than not, what he says is nonsense. It’s like the wiring between his brain and his mouth is crossed – he knows what he _wants_ to say, but he ends up saying completely the wrong thing instead. When he tries to talk at all, that is.”

_“What have they said about it? I mean, is he going to get any better?”_

Jim ran a hand over his face. “They don’t know for sure. The rest of it – his gross motor skills, he mostly got back within a few days, and since then it’s just been a matter of building up his strength. He’s already walking, even though it tires him out when he does too much, and he still uses a wheelchair when that happens. But he’s lost fine motor control completely – his fingers on that side are paralyzed, and his whole right hand is pretty useless. The chances are it won’t get any better, and he’s resigned to that. But his speech?” Jim sighed. “it will most likely improve, from what the speech therapist said, but it’s a slow process. And you know Sandburg – he’s frustrated as all hell about it. And that is the hardest part of this whole mess for him to deal with.”

_“I see.”_

Jim carried on speaking as he reached his truck and unlocked the door, his worry telegraphing itself to his father over the phone. “Even partially paralyzed, there’s work he could do right now, Pops.” He studiously avoided mentioning that Blair would be unlikely to get an employer’s reference from Rainier, because very soon that would no longer be an obstacle. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he went on, “He’s adamant that he’s going to support himself. With his qualifications, there are occupations he could move into where only having one functioning arm wouldn’t matter. But apparently it could take a couple of years before he’ll really be talking again – and that’s assuming he _can_ get up to the same speed as before. What the hell are his chances of finding the kind of job he’s capable of? The man was a teacher, for Christ’s sake. He can’t teach if he can’t communicate properly.”

It was good to vent for once; to show the worry and pessimism he couldn’t afford to show in front of his partner, who had enough to deal with, without Jim’s emotional turmoil thrown into the mix.

But Jim’s father had something else on his mind. “ _Jimmy, what about you? If Blair is going home next week, he’s going to need someone there to take care of him. What about your job? You surely can’t afford to take off any more time than you already did right after he first got ill. Are you planning to take a leave of absence again? Because the alternative is, I can help you pay for a home-nurse. No problem. After what that boy did for you, giving up his career to help keep your secret. It’s the least I can do”_

Jim had discounted Blair’s threat to find his own place to live, rather than come back to the loft, as so much hot air; and so he skirted over that now, and got to the point. “That’s why I’m calling, Pops,” Jim said. “I… I may not be working at the PD any more, after this week is over. But it’s not just because I have to look after Blair. There’s something you need to know, in case the press start bugging you again.”

There was silence for a moment on the other end of the line. Then William spoke. _“Oh god, Jimmy,”_ he said. _“What have you done?”_

***

Blair was relieved, to say the least, that Jim had left to go back to the PD after their argument.

Not, he thought resentfully, that arguing was very effective when you had to type expletives one-handed into a fucking laptop! Jim might have become astute at understanding Blair’s body language, but in their exchange just now, Blair hadn’t wanted there to be any room at all for misinterpretation, so he’d word-processed his resentment at his partner in no uncertain terms. And inadequate though it was as a satisfying means of expression, it had felt pretty good to type ‘fuck you, Ellison!’ in all caps.

Breathing deep, in the way he’d learned during years of meditation, Blair tried to put his overwhelming frustration to one side. But he wasn’t even close to achieving serenity. Giving in to his darker emotions instead, he picked up the glass of water by his left elbow and hurled it violently across the room, the water fanning out of it in a feathery arc as it went. But to his disgust, the damn thing didn’t even have the decency to smash to smithereens, instead just bouncing across the floor defiantly.

In its wake, Blair breathed deeply again, fury nowhere near sated by his thwarted act of destruction. Goddamn it, but Jim made him so _fucking_ angry!

It was ten weeks since he’d had the stroke. A week in the ICU in Spokane, two weeks in the neurological ward at Cascade General, and the rest of the time here, in a state-of-the-art rehabilitation center in an up-market, leafy suburb of Cascade. And thanks to Mister Don’t-Worry-About-It-I-Have-It-All-In-Hand, he still had no _fucking_ idea how it was all going to be paid for!

“I am calm. I am calm,” he tried to say; his familiar, soothing mantra. But what came out – in a barely comprehensible voice – was, “Start am feed,” and he had no idea where that came from. What the hell did it mean, anyway? God, this sucked. Sucked, SUCKED!

He’d lost the use of his right arm, and he didn’t make any sense when he opened his mouth. But he was still _him_ inside, goddamn it!  He still had all his faculties. He hadn’t suddenly become, like, five years old, or unable to cope with painful reality, like the fact that medical care of this magnitude didn’t grow on trees.

And apart from that – his disability _was_ his reality now, and he was damn well making an effort to live it, to make plans and to map out his own future. Why the hell couldn’t Jim take him seriously, and see that Blair _needed_ to do it _his_ way?

Blair was grateful to Jim. He really, really was. Since this whole nightmare had happened, Jim had been his rock, his anchor during a time when Blair had sorely needed someone else to take responsibility for a while. But, apart from the whole money issue, something was preventing his friend from letting go of his self-appointed advocacy for Blair, now that the time was right for him to back off a little. And, as a result, Jim was attempting to dictate to Blair what should happen now that he was about to go back out into the big wide world, just as he’d heavy-handedly dictated Blair’s treatment all along.

Well, it ended here. Jim might be determined to keep secret the mysterious source of funding for Blair’s medical care, and to treat him like his wishes were of no consequence, but he didn’t have to sit here and take it. He had a few secrets of his own. Opening up his e-mail folder on the laptop, he opened up the message he’d gotten this morning, and typed a reply. It was time for him to start his new life – and Jim wouldn’t be able to do a goddamned thing about it.

Neither telling Ellison where to get off earlier, nor throwing the glass across the room, had helped improve his mood any. But pressing ‘Enter’, to send off his acceptance of the job offer he’d received, sure as hell did.

***

“Damn it to hell!” Frustration didn’t even begin to cover it. “Assholes!”

The wannabe hippie was never fucking left alone. Ellison was worse than a guard dog and, when he wasn’t around, the rehab facility had security guards the size of Schwarzenegger on the door. There was no way to get to him, let alone spring him out of there. 

Not only that, but from the glimpses he’d had of Sandburg, in his wheelchair out in the grounds, the little bastard clearly couldn’t walk. Even if he had the opportunity to snatch him, getting away with a crippled man from this place was never going to be easy. “Fuck!” He felt so goddamned frustrated. How long did it take to get over a stroke anyway?

Well, no sense sitting around here doing nothing. Knowledge was power, wasn’t that what they said? Switching on his PC, he hacked through the rehab facility’s firewall, to engage in his regular perusal of Sandburg’s e-mail.

Fifteen minutes later, his spirits had lifted considerably. Whistling happily, he printed off the information he’d found, certain pertinent dates and an address.

And, most critically, an e-mail in Sandburg’s ‘sent’ folder, telling Ellison, in no uncertain terms, to stay the hell away.

“Oh, man,” he breathed delightedly, reading the information through once again. “Now you’re making this all too easy!”

***

Sitting wearily in his wheelchair across from Jim later, when his friend arrived back at Blair’s room at the rehab center, Blair realized that he should have known that the stubborn bastard would disregard the message he’d sent. Personal space, where Blair was concerned, was something Jim had ceased to respect as soon as he’d had the stroke, so an explicit instruction to ‘hit the road, Jack, and don’t you come back no more’, would be practically guaranteed to have the exact opposite effect.

Actually, he realized that he didn’t really blame Jim for not taking his brush-off seriously. After sending the tersely worded e-mail, right after he’d sent the other one accepting his job offer, he’d had a fit of remorse that had sent him into a tailspin of depression. Jim had been Blair’s lifeline since this all happened, and he didn’t deserve to be cast off so callously, no matter how at odds they were.

Anger could only sustain Blair for so long these days. The fact was, he _was_ devastated by the turn his life had taken, and _was_ scared about what his future might hold. Sometimes, he was holding it together by a thread, and Jim knew that every bit as well as he did.

But he couldn’t let fear and regret dominate his life, dammit. And he couldn’t afford to be dependent on Jim – either financially or emotionally – forever. He had to move forward, and reclaim his life. Otherwise, what the hell was the point of carrying on?

So he let Jim back into his room when he (for once) knocked. But despite being sorry for hurting Jim’s feelings, and fully intending to apologize for doing so, he waited to see what the other man had to say first.

After all, he thought contrarily, he might not have his health, but he still had his pride.

***

As Jim sat down in the chair that Blair curtly waved him into, Sandburg had an expression on his face that Jim had seen many times before. Stubborn, pigheaded, independent little shit that he was.

And god, but Jim loved him.

Somewhat cryptically, Jim broke the tense silence between them. “Don’t ever change, Chief,” he said, humor and affection infusing his words.

Jim’s attitude wasn’t what Sandburg expected, given his reaction. His bubble of defensiveness and antagonism burst, Blair blinked furiously, biting his lip, while casting Jim a fierce look. To Jim’s hyper-observant eyes – and Jim understood Blair’s body language fluently, it had turned out – he was speaking eloquently: _Goddamn it, Jim! I’m trying to be serious here. Stop fucking ambushing me, and actually pay attention to what is going on here for once!_

Jim nodded in answer. “Blair, there’s something I need to say to you.”

The rare use of his partner’s first name guaranteed his whole attention and, perceiving the second that the other man metaphorically sat up and took notice, Jim said, “I wasn’t there.” He looked over Blair’s shoulder, avoiding his partner’s eyes. “I wasn’t with you when you trashed your reputation, and I wasn’t there when you went off the road. And the reason, both times, was because I was too fucking selfish and self-absorbed to see the value of what was right in front of me.”

Jim knew, despite Sandburg trying to hide it, that he’d hit close to home. He nodded, smiling faintly, acknowledging the truth in his own words. “You think – and Simon thinks it too – that I’ve spent all this time with you, taken responsibility for your treatment, all of it, because I feel guilty. And maybe, Blair, maybe there’s some truth in that.”

Jim risked a glance at Blair, who was hardly breathing, perhaps dreading where this was going. And then he ploughed on. His partner was a strong guy – he could take it. “But it’s _not_ ,” Jim said emphatically, his eyes now boring into Blair, “ _all_ of it.”

Blair made a noise, an involuntary, questioning grunt. But despite the unspoken question, his body betrayed reluctance – fear of hearing something he wouldn’t like. His meaning was as clear as if he’d spoken out loud.

“Mostly,” Jim said in answer, watching his partner’s face carefully, “it’s because I care about you Chief. Really, that’s most of it. You want me to say it?” He nodded, answering his own question, smiling a little. “I will. I love you, okay?”

Blair’s eyes widened and, with one touch at the electronic control, his wheelchair lurched toward Jim. But Jim held up a hand to halt the other man’s forward momentum, not daring now to look at Blair’s face. He had to get through this. “Let me finish, all right?” he pleaded, and the movement stopped, although Jim could sense the emotion coming from Blair’s direction as well as he could sense his own.

Into the sudden expectant stillness, Jim confessed, “There’s another reason. Let me tell you what it is, Sandburg.” He took a deep breath. “Something _terrible_ happened to you, Chief. It happened when I wasn’t with you, and I’m scared _shitless_ that if I leave you alone, or let you go off by yourself, it will happen again. I’m _scared_ – that’s what this is all about.” Jim smiled into the distance. “Pathetic, huh?” He shrugged, shook his head. “Bad guys – Lash and all the rest – I can deal with. But this? This I can’t fight. I’m useless, and I’m _scared_ , Chief, because I can’t do a goddamned thing about it.” He laughed, a short, self-mocking sound. “But then you knew that about me all along, didn’t you? You wrote about it.”

This time, there was no stopping Sandburg. The whine of the electric wheelchair heralded his approach as he moved forward, not stopping until his legs bumped into Jim’s. A hand reached out, and sure, deft fingers wrapped around Jim’s own. Blair’s pulse, vivid to Jim’s senses, beat a steady rhythm – warm, alive, _here_. And, demandingly, his fingers _squeezed_.

It was an order, no less than if Blair had said it out loud, and Jim obediently met his partner’s gaze. Blair’s eyes shone – with a mixture of unshed tears, mirth and – he had to admit it – a love equal to his own.

“I have to tell you,” Jim said, his mouth quirking up, “I’m at a loss here, partner. You’re coping with this a whole lot better than I am. Or,” he added, “than I would if I was the one in your place.”

The hand holding his was removed and, eyebrow raised in exasperation, Blair thwacked him on the arm.

“Okay, okay,” Jim said. “I get it. Pull myself together, huh?” He nodded. “Okay. I’m working on it, all right?” His hand reached out, and grasped Blair’s again. “I’m glad for you, Chief. I really am. If this is what you need to do – live on your own, be independent, work in your new job, I’m happy for you. I know I’ve been an overbearing asshole – no,” Blair’s eyebrow had quirked, “don’t interrupt,” which made his partner grin widely.

Jim carried on. “You’re a pretty resilient guy. I kinda forgot that for a while – and I’m sorry about that, Chief. For the record, I’ve got it now, okay? Anything you need, I’m there. But you do what you have to do, and from now on, I won’t interfere.”

Jim didn’t resist when Blair let go his fingers, only to reach up and grasp him behind the neck to pull him into a one-handed hug. For a few moments, as his face was pressed against Blair’s shoulder, the only sound he could hear was their mingled breathing, loud in Jim’s ears, along with the muffled, vital thud of Blair’s heart.

And this guy had some heart.

Jim reached out to return the hug, and allowed himself to soak up the comforting feel of Blair in his arms. Alive and, if not entirely whole, certainly no less a man for it. But the moment passed, and when Blair made a restless little movement, they parted as if by some unspoken agreement. Pinned by Blair’s gaze – softer now, the hard edge of anger modified by compassion – he watched as Blair made a questioning sound and gestured at the room they were in.

He might have known that Sandburg wasn’t going to let _that_ one go.

“Blair,” he said, and Blair took notice as Jim’s tone became serious. “Trust me, okay? I’ll tell you, I promise. Very soon. But let it drop for now, huh? Please, Chief. I have my reasons.”

Sandburg, he knew, would normally have fought him for the information now that matters had come to a head, no matter what Jim said to put him off. But to his intense relief, he saw agreement in his partner’s wiry frame. Perhaps the fact that Jim had already bled out his psyche so comprehensively _once_ today, made Blair more inclined to let Jim have this one point.

 _This_ time, at least.

In answer, Jim dropped the subject, and clapped Blair on the shoulder. “Okay then, sport, tell me about these new plans of yours, huh?”

And, as he moved over to the desk with Blair, and looked over the information about his partner’s new job and living arrangements, Jim breathed a sigh of relief. It was all going to be all right. Watching Blair’s face, flushed with excitement about the positive turn his life was about to take, Jim found that he had no regrets at all about what he was planning to do.

He hadn’t been able to prevent this latest assault on his partner’s well-being, but there were still some things he could control. And he was going to do his damnedest to give Blair as much of his life back as possible.

Even if the wheels he had already set in motion could mean ultimately losing Blair’s friendship for good.

***

“He’s going to be an advisor for young, disabled people,” Jim told Simon later. “The job seems to cover things like career and education options, and accessing financial help, like grants and scholarships. There’s a lot of stuff he needs to learn about relevant legislation, to make sure that suitable arrangements are made for his clients in places of work and schools, making sure buildings are accessible, that kind of thing. They call the job ‘Access Officer’.”

Simon was suitably impressed. “So it’s advocacy, as well as giving advice?” Jim nodded, and Simon asked, “So how did he land that? He’s not too far off himself from the same position as those he’s going to be helping.”

Jim seemed, naturally, quite proud of Blair’s achievement. “He was ‘talking’ to the social worker at the rehab center, and the guy told Blair about the vacancy.” He shrugged. “Seems they were looking for someone with his kind of educational background and work history. The job involves a lot of research, finding out what resources can be pulled in for people, and he’s good at that. Plus, he has teaching experience, and he’s good with young people. The fact that he has a disability himself also worked to his advantage, because of their affirmative action policy.”

“And the Rainier thing? That didn’t hurt his chances?”

Jim shook his head. “Nope. Seems they were more interested in the fact that he had exactly what they were looking for in terms of skills and experience. He came clean with them, of course,” Jim winced, remembering Blair’s painful admission. “But they took him on anyway. There’s a probationary period, and they’re prepared to give him the chance, to see what he can do. If he passes that, the job is his permanently.”

Simon was smiling. “I gotta hand it to the kid,” he said. “He’s fallen on his feet, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah,” Jim agreed, but he didn’t look all that happy.

Curious, Simon asked, “Something wrong, Jim?”

Jim shook his head. “I’m happy for him Simon. But I just wish he’d come home, instead of going to live by himself so soon. The job includes accommodation, since part of his work will be at the rehab center, working with the kids there. He’s been allocated a single-story home a couple of blocks away, and he plans to move straight there from the center when he gets discharged.”

Simon could see Jim’s point. “That’s not going to be easy. How will he get around? He can’t exactly drive, with only one functioning arm.”

“The center is allocating him a car,” Jim said. “It’s being modified, so that he’ll be able to drive it. He’s going to be out on the road a lot, visiting kids in their homes and workplaces. And as for the rest of it? A lot of what he’s been learning in rehab is ‘life skills’. How to get around in everyday life despite his physical limitations.”

“Seems he’s got it all wrapped up,” Simon noted. “So why are you so adamant that he come home? This sounds like a golden opportunity for him. Give him back some of what he lost.”

Jim sighed. “It makes no sense, I know,” he admitted, “that I feel like that. Don’t mind me, Simon,” he said, resolving to stop worrying. “I’ll get over it. You’re right – this is a great chance for him. And I’m sure he’ll do well. They couldn’t have hired anyone more suitable.”

***

Despite the fact that the hippie had told him to take a hike, a week later Ellison was still hovering around the guy, like a bad smell.

The watcher observed from concealment, as Ellison hefted boxes into the crippled guy’s new house. The hippie was inside already, apparently, because Ellison kept calling out to him. Sandburg never replied; odd, he thought. He remembered that the guy hadn’t seemed to be able to shut up the last time he’d had occasion to be this near to him.

He left matters there; no point in hanging around, when Ellison was obviously going to be there for a while. He’d come back in a couple of days, once Sandburg had settled in. Ellison couldn’t possibly be with him every second of the day.

Then, as soon as Sandburg was alone and unprotected, he could initiate his plan. And it was going to be really satisfying to finally make Ellison pay.

***

Blair had two weeks to settle into his new accommodation before he actually started work and, although his job hadn’t officially begun, he planned to use the time doing research on the stuff he needed to know. Well, that and getting re-acquainted with living independently.

He’d always been a skillful driver, and had driven a variety of different vehicles in his time, so had picked up the knack of driving his new van – a Ford E-150 – fairly quickly. It had been extensively modified to adapt it to his current abilities. The gearshift had been mounted on the left side of the steering column; with automatic transmission, his left arm would be sufficient to switch between gears or steering wheel as needed.  The pedals had also been moved, so that he could use his stronger leg to reach the accelerator and brake without strain.   He had a remote control to operate the hydraulic lift, and the side door, so that he had easy access with his wheelchair.

Blair’s new house, which was leased to him by the rehab center as part of his new job arrangements, had already been modified with mobility in mind. There was a ramp leading through the front door, and all the internal doors were wide enough to allow a wheelchair to pass. Other internal customizations included strategically-placed rails for support, and the careful positioning of cupboards and closets so that they were accessible to wheelchair users.

Not, he decided, that he was going to spend much time in his wheelchair from now on. As each day passed, Blair regained more strength and mobility in his affected leg. He was standing for longer periods of time, and was managing to walk further each day. The wheelchair, he was sure, would soon be unnecessary. He had begun to use it only when he went out, preferring, when at home, to ignore it altogether.

Being paralyzed in one arm was more of a problem, but he was constantly finding ways around that. For everything he found difficult to do one-handed, there was some solution or some different way of approaching each task. It slowed things down a bit, and he got impatient sometimes, but he was well on the way to learning to live with it, despite his regret that such acceptance was necessary.

His biggest problem was his speech, or lack thereof, although, during the past few days, he was increasingly managing to find the right words at least half of the time. He hoped fervently that the improvement would continue; it really sucked, trying to navigate through a world where communication was essential, without the ability to express himself effectively. In the meantime, the center had equipped him with a hand-held voice synthesizer, which he used when necessary.

Blair was finding that having to cope, by navigating the outside world by himself, was an education in itself. He had never before realized how inaccessible some places were, or how selfish and lacking in patience people could be around someone they perceived as ‘disabled’.    The first time he couldn’t get a disabled parking space because some able-bodied idiot had taken it, he’d felt his blood boil. And, despite having expressed his desire to take control of his own life, he couldn’t help feeling huge satisfaction when Jim, who was with him at the time, ripped the guy a new one, using the weight of his badge to impress upon him the error of his ways.

Using the wheelchair when he was out (as he intended to do for the moment, until he developed more stamina for walking longer distances), gave Blair an opportunity to view the world from that unique perspective. It was an invaluable lesson in what people with mobility issues faced on a daily basis, which he was sure was a vital insight that would enable him to do his new job more effectively.

The weekend Blair moved into his new house, and during his first forays out in his van, Jim stuck with him, a constant, reassuring presence. It was great at first; despite Blair’s resolve, he did initially find that what he had taken on was more than a little bit daunting. But he soon realized that if he was truly going to be self-sufficient, he’d have to have a shot at doing it all by himself – sooner rather than later – because, no matter how hard he tried to stand back, Jim just couldn’t help himself from offering constant aid, and Blair found it all too easy to give in and let him.

And so here they were, eating takeout pizza in Blair’s new house on Sunday evening, Blair’s boxes all finally unpacked and the pantry stocked. And they were about to have The Talk.

“Spit it out, Chief,” Jim’s voice interrupted his musing. “I can see the wheels turning from here.”

Blair glanced at Jim, who had a look of faint amusement on his face. And he wondered, not for the first time, how acute this new ability of the sentinel’s was, or if he was able to do it with anyone else apart from Blair. But no matter how accurate Jim’s interpretation of Blair’s gestures might be, he didn’t want Jim to misunderstand him and interpret it as a brush off – especially now that Blair realized exactly how rattled Jim had been by all of this.

After a couple of seconds’ deliberation, Blair reached out to his voice synthesizer, which was lying by his hand on the table, only to have a larger hand cover his own, preventing him from picking it up. “Chief,” Jim urged, “try saying it. Between what you manage to get out and what I can pick up with my senses, I’m sure I’ll be able to get it. Okay?”

Blair nodded. He hated the damned thing, anyway; it sounded just like Stephen Hawking, and absolutely nothing at all like _him_. Taking a deep breath, relaxing as much as he could – because he found it much harder to get the words out when he was tense – he decided first of all to make one thing clear. Concentrating hard, he tried to radiate sincerity. “Grateful,” he said.

Jim pursed his lips. He nodded. “Okay, Chief, I know you are,” he said. “So why do I hear ‘but’?”

This was hard – Blair really didn’t want Jim to take it the wrong way. “Try…” Blair struggled, but the words ‘I need to do it alone’ wouldn’t come. He changed it, instead attempting a briefer substitute. “Self. By self.”

Jim smiled. “This is my ‘Dear John’ letter, huh?”

Blair blinked. Then realized Jim didn’t seem upset. “Okay… man?” he asked.

Jim nodded. “I kinda figured you’d need a bit of space. And anyway,” he shrugged, “I’ll be back at work tomorrow.” He smiled. “How do you want to do this? Because, I’m here if you need me. Anytime, Blair, you know that, no matter what.” Jim reached over, took another piece of pizza, and the very casualness of the action helped soothe Blair’s misgivings about how Jim would react. “What, you want to manage the days by yourself, and I’ll come over in the evenings? Or do you want me out of your hair completely for a few days, see how you get on?”

Blair had already begun to nod at Jim’s second suggestion, so Jim elaborated. “Okay,” he said. “It’s Sunday now. How about we give it until Friday evening? Unless,” he said, readying the pizza, “you need me to come over in the meantime.” He took a bite, watching Blair as he chewed.

It sounded to Blair, suddenly, like a hell of a long time to manage on his own. But he knew it made sense to try; if he was going to make this work, he needed to prove to himself he could do it, and five days was a good, meaty challenge. And if there was an emergency or he found he really couldn’t cope, he could contact Jim or, failing that, his new boss in the rehab center social work office, in the meantime.

“Okay,” Blair answered, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Jim hadn’t freaked, and was being pretty supportive of his need to assert his independence, actually. Thank god his friend had gotten over the overprotective phase. “Let’s… play it.”

Jim grinned at his word error. “One word wrong, junior, out of all of those. Not bad, huh? Soon you’ll be spouting poetry.”

Blair rolled his eyes. “Asshole,” he said amicably – and quite clearly – as he reached for another piece of pizza.

***

Jim couldn’t help retaining a niggling sense of worry as he drove back to the loft, leaving Blair to begin their five-day hiatus. If Blair stuck to his plan, it would be the longest period of time that he and Blair had been apart since this whole nightmare began.

Hell, it would be the longest time they’d been apart since the day they met.

Blair had promised to keep his cell phone charged and accessible so that, if he needed help, he could call Jim. And Jim vowed to drop everything and head over there, if it came about that Blair might need him.

In return, Jim had been forced to promise not to conduct any secret surveillance of his partner, or to contact Blair unless Blair contacted him first. He’d agreed, even though it had been difficult for him to do so. Blair needed desperately to retain his confidence, and to prove both to Jim and himself that he could live independently. And Jim had to trust Blair to know his own limits, even if Jim’s instinct was to stick close to his partner’s side and take care of him.

Jim smiled to himself, as he got into the elevator at 852 Prospect. He still considered Blair his partner, despite the fact that their days of working together were over.

Jim was mostly working alone again, without an official partner, although he did team up with various other Major Crime detectives when the occasion warranted it. He desperately missed having Sandburg by his side, though; it wasn’t easy to let go of three years of being a successful team. But he was getting by. Blair had taught him well during their time together, and he had a good handle on his senses these days. Zones, it seemed, were now mostly a thing of the past. And Blair had made it clear he was still willing to work in an advisory capacity when it came to any potential problems with Jim’s senses, so that essential backup was still in place should it become necessary.

The phone was ringing as Jim let himself into the loft, and he hastened over to answer it, just in case it was Sandburg having second thoughts. “Hello?”

 _“Jim, it’s me,”_ came a familiar woman’s voice.

“Wendy,” Jim acknowledged, his gut clenching suddenly.

 _“I’m calling to let you know,”_ the caller stated, _“that your story is going to be in this coming Tuesday’s edition. I tried to hold it up longer, like you asked, but the editor doesn’t want to delay any longer. I’m sorry, Jim.”_

Jim breathed deeply. The shit was about to hit the fan, then. “Thanks for trying,” he said.

 _“No problem,”_ Wendy replied. Then, in a softer tone, she asked, _“Hey, how’s Blair doing, anyway?”_

“He’s doing good. Real good.” Jim swallowed, nausea born of grief surging in his gut. “It was worth it,” he said sincerely. “I never wanted it to come to this, but for him, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. It’s made all the difference.”

 _“I’m glad.”_ The pause that followed was a little uncomfortable and, when Jim didn’t seem willing to break the silence, Wendy said, _“Well, I’ll see you around, okay, Jim?”_

“Yeah. Bye, Wendy.”

Jim replaced the receiver, and sank down on the couch, putting his head in his hands.

***

Monday, and the first few hours of Blair’s self-imposed separation from Jim were almost over. Tempted though Blair had been to hide away in his new house, he’d made an effort to get out and about, driving to one of his favorite parks and soaking up the morning sun surrounded by joggers, dog walkers and boisterous children.

There was no reason to go to the mall, as he and Jim had stocked up his cupboards just yesterday, but afterwards, Blair went there all the same. Not distracted today by actually having to _buy_ stuff, he took particular note of how easy it was to navigate the place in a wheelchair, like where the gradient seemed too steep, or where obstructions had been carelessly left. Armed with a few mental notes, he decided to get online when he got home, and begin his research. And tomorrow, he would go to the public library, and check out the legislation relating to access in public areas.

All in all, things were going great so far.

Blair was still lost in thought when he finally got home, and therefore didn’t notice the sinister figure lurking in his driveway. He had just parked, and was about to get out, when he was surprised by the car door behind him opening to admit someone into the back seat. His first thought was that Jim had decided to break his promise after all, and annoyance swelled.

Until, that was, fear took its place, when the barrel of a gun touched the back of his head, and a male voice – emphatically not Jim’s – commanded, “Drive.”

***

Jim’s advance copy of _News_ magazine arrived in the mail on Monday morning. Jim read what it had to say with a heavy heart, before heading to the PD. As soon as he got in, he went straight to Simon’s office.

The Captain looked up with a start when Ellison placed his badge and gun on the desk in front of him. “Jim?”

Jim shrugged. “I quit, Captain,” he said.

“What the…” Simon seemed totally floored. “Jim! What the hell is going on?”

By way of answer, Jim tossed the magazine down in front of Simon. “That’s why,” he said.

Simon looked at the cover, then up at Jim, his expression one of pure shock. “Ellison?” he said, almost in a whisper. “What the hell have you done?”

***

Shit, shit, _shit_! Trying to keep calm, Blair did exactly what he was told, and pulled back out into the road. His mouth had gone dry, his heart pounded rapidly, and he didn’t think he’d be able to talk right now if his life depended on it.

As well it might.

The guy jabbed the gun in his head hard. “Take the next right, then pull over. See that van, the green one up ahead? Pull over in front of that.”

Blair did what he was told, and all the time, his mind was working furiously. The voice was familiar, although he was having trouble placing it. Thoughts of self-preservation ran through his head at rapid speed; his cell phone was in his jacket pocket, in the back seat. If only he could get to it and press speed dial…

It was amazing, Blair considered absently, given his racing mind and sense of helplessness, that he still had the presence of mind to be able to drive, but he managed just the same. He signaled and pulled the car over where instructed to do so, but any hope of getting his hands on his cell phone were lost when the guy once again pushed the gun muzzle into the back of his head the second they stopped.  “Now get in the chair,” he demanded, “and take it outside.”  He jabbed the gun again, emphasizing the threat.

Glancing at the sardonic smile on the man’s face, Blair recognized him at last. This was the guy who’d stalked Jim and risked his life by blowing his cover on a case; the same obsessive nutcase who’d dumped a load of manure in the loft and fraudulently maxed-out Jim’s credit cards. The madman who had almost exploded a sewer and blown half a city block to kingdom come, just to get even with Jim for accidentally cutting him off in traffic.

 _Dan Freeman_.

***

Simon was totally floored by what he had just heard. “So you’re saying you’re prepared to give it all up, just like that?”

Jim’s voice was calm. “I’m not only _prepared_ to Simon – it’s already done.” He gestured toward the magazine on Simon’s desk. “This hits the newsstands tomorrow morning.”

Simon looked back down at the offending object. _News_ was a rival publication to _Time_ magazine, with identical reader stats. It was the magazine that, years before, had run the story about Jim’s rescue from Peru.

This time, a rescue would not be forthcoming.

The cover showed a full-figure portrait of Ellison, frowning into the camera, the words, “ _I_ **am** _a sentinel,” says Cascade detective Jim Ellison,_ ” emblazoned above it. A smaller inset photograph depicted the _News_ shot from several years ago, when Ellison had just been found in Peru, in which Jim was wearing a look of haunted exhaustion along with his jungle-frayed camouflage gear. The second inset photograph was a screen shot from the _True Crime_ documentary that Ellison and Sandburg had taken part in, but which had ultimately not been aired, showing the two partners just after the thwarted bank robbery operation, that one of the documentary team had been instrumental in sabotaging. 

It only took one glance at that shot for Simon to work out who had written the article, even without looking inside. “Jim,” he remarked incredulously, “you sold your story to Wendy Hawthorn?”

Ellison shrugged. “She contacted me, after Sandburg’s press conference. She’d already worked out that Blair lied to save my reputation – hell, she saw enough to convince her that the story about my senses was true when she followed us around. After Blair had the stroke, I agreed to give her exclusive rights to my story, on condition that Blair’s medical expenses and aftercare were paid for. She agreed.”

Jesus. Simon didn’t trust that woman as far as he could throw her. “I thought she was a TV reporter?”

“She’s freelance. She had an in with the editor of _News_ , and got me the deal I wanted. End of story.”

“Christ.” This was a nightmare; the potential repercussions from Jim’s actions didn’t bear thinking about. A story of this magnitude certainly wouldn’t just be confined to Cascade. Once this hit the stands, it was anybody’s guess where it would end up – the local TV network would be the tip of the iceberg, given what had happened just over three months ago and the international distribution of this publication. “What,” Simon asked, gesturing at the magazine on his desk, “does Sandburg think about this?”

“He doesn’t know.”

Simon fixed a questioning gaze on Ellison. “What?”

Ellison smiled sadly. “Do you really think he’d have agreed to this? After what he put himself through to protect me?”

Simon closed his eyes. This was a nightmare. Sighing massively, he opened them again, and looked at Jim. “What do _you_ get out of this deal?”

“Not a cent. I just made sure that Sandburg would be taken care of; that’s all.”

He’d been afraid Ellison was going to say that. Simon stood, and moved around the desk. “Jim,” he said gently, “you’ve just committed professional suicide. All your cases will be up for scrutiny now you’ve made this public confession; there’s no way out of it this time. At the very least, you’ll be suspended with pay while the mess is sorted out. If you were planning to burn your bridges like this, you should at least have made provision for your own future.”

Ellison shrugged. “My life, my decision, Simon.” He took a deep breath, looking oddly relieved, as though the secret he’d kept all these years had been a huge weight pressing him down. “And a suspension won’t be necessary. I resigned, remember? Let’s leave it at that. After this, what happens, happens.”

***

Freeman was seriously whacked. Not that that was news to Blair – he’d known that about him from the moment he’d first laid eyes on the guy.

Under the constant threat of Freeman’s gun, Blair obediently shuffled into his wheelchair, and his kidnapper rode the lift to the ground with him. After that, Freeman pushed the chair toward the green van with considerable effort.  “Shit!” he snarled. “I didn’t realize these things were so fucking heavy.”  Muttering further curses as he went, Freeman eventually maneuvered the chair up a ramp into the back of the van, and secured it to fittings on the floor, which had apparently been put there for that purpose.

This guy, it seemed, had been planning Blair’s abduction for a while.

As the doors were slammed, leaving him alone in the back, Blair was puzzled for a moment, until it hit him. Freeman obviously assumed he couldn’t walk– that was why he’d forced Blair into the chair rather than making him walk, and that was why Blair was not tied up right now. It was classic stereotyping at work – he’d seen the wheelchair but not the man, and had misjudged the man accordingly.

Despite his fear, Blair allowed himself to feel a little satisfaction. That misconception could, quite possibly, work to his advantage, if it meant that Freeman was likely to continue to underestimate him.

As the van started to move, Blair ruthlessly buried his fear and held onto that thought, desperately hoping he’d get a chance to play his advantage.

***

The timing of this whole thing was unfortunate. Ellison knew that he really needed to talk to Blair before his senses once again became center stage, and before the press sought Blair out, too, for their soundbites. But he’d promised to stay away, give Blair space, to allow him time to adapt to his new lifestyle.

It was regrettable that he had to go back on his promise so quickly, but there really was no alternative. He needed to talk to Blair now, before the thing blew up in his face and Sandburg got ambushed with it.

Pulling up outside Blair’s house, he noted that his van was missing. Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed Blair’s number, and listened as the distant phone rang.

No answer.

Sighing in exasperation – Blair had promised to keep his phone close by, after all – Jim settled in to wait for him to come home.

***

They had only been on the move for, at most, fifteen minutes, when the van stopped and the engine was killed. Blair tensed up as he heard the driver’s door open and slam as Freeman exited, tracking the guy’s footsteps in loose gravel as he moved around the side of the van to the back door, which was wrenched open.

Impersonal and determined hands unhooked Blair’s chair from the floor, and he gasped in apprehension as the chair was grasped and hauled out backwards.

As his wheelchair was backed out and swung around, Blair took note of where they were. A large house, set in impressive, manicured gardens and, by the standards of the accommodation, still in the same area that the rehab center and his own modest house were in – the leafy Cascade suburb of Clarendon Park. To his surprise, considering the totally wheelchair-unfriendly gravel leading up to it - there was a ramp up to the front door.  A leftover, Blair assumed, from some previous resident of the house that the current owners had left in place.

Something told him that the current owner of this property was emphatically _not_ Freeman.

Freeman pushed him toward the house, swearing in strangled grunts as the heavy chair bogged down in the gravel until it reached the sidewalk, then cursed even more as the weight made pushing it up the simple ramp an effort equivalent to scaling Mount Everest. Doing absolutely nothing to help, instead concealing the electronic control which might have aided Freeman’s effort beneath his hands, Blair couldn’t, for some reason, find it within himself to feel sorry for the other man as he grouched and panted.

Once inside, Freeman pushed him into a spacious living room, and stopped, breathing heavily. Coming around to the front of the chair, he looked down at Sandburg, a mocking smile on his face. “You, just stay there,” he ordered. “Don’t go anywhere while I park the van.” He laughed nastily. “Don’t suppose you’d be able to get far, would you?” And, chuckling derisively, his assessment of Sandburg clearly marking him as no threat at all, he left.

Staying put, Blair looked around the room. The bizarre juxtaposition of opulent furnishings and strewn garbage, including take-out cartons and beer bottles, immediately confirmed his assumption that Freeman was an invader in this home. Children’s toys in a box under the window set his heart to pounding, as he wondered what the hell had happened to the legitimate inhabitants. He hoped fervently that nothing terrible had taken place here.

There was a phone on an occasional table by the couch and, as he heard the engine start up outside, Blair rolled over to it and picked it up. The line was dead; following the wire with his eyes, he saw that it had been severed.

Freeman, it seemed, had thought of everything.

He entertained a brief notion of trying to escape, but knew it was pointless. He wouldn’t get far, even if he tried to walk out of here. Running was still beyond him, and the electric wheelchair, although it moved at a brisk walking pace when in high gear, could easily be overtaken by a runner. And if it came down to a confrontation – which it would, because Freeman would inevitably catch him – he was absolutely no match for the guy physically, with only one functioning hand.

No, he thought, as he rolled away from the useless phone, the best bet was for him to bide his time, and find out what this was all about. If he was careful to exaggerate his level of disability – the guy already seemed to think he couldn’t walk, and hadn’t even bothered to tie him up – he might be able to use that misconception to his advantage. And he didn’t _really_ think he was in any danger – Freeman obviously wanted him alive, for whatever reason. The guy was nuts, but Blair didn’t really see him as a killer.

He hoped.

As he heard the front door open and Freeman come back in, Blair firmly quashed the dissenting voice inside him, which pointed out that Freeman had not tried to hide his identity in any way, and that – once he’d got what he wanted – the chances were that he wouldn’t leave Blair alive.

***

The hippie was where he’d left him, looking like a startled rabbit in the glare of headlights. Freeman felt a surge of satisfaction run through him; all of his careful planning, months and fucking _months_ of biding his time and palming his medication, had finally paid off. And he was about to get what he’d wanted all along, ever since the first time the cop had crossed him – a chance to indulge in his obsession of making Ellison pay.

The hippie was watching him warily and, enjoying the rush of power it gave him, Freeman rested his hands on the chair arms, and leaned right over in his face. To his amusement, the cripple shrank back, his eyes wide with apprehension. “I guess,” Freeman drawled, “You’re wondering what this is all about, huh?”

Sandburg didn’t speak, just nodded his head slightly.

“Go on, ask me,” Freeman demanded. When the hippie made no reply, he sneered, “Cat got your tongue?” He pounded one of the chair arms with his fist, then reached out to grab the little shit by the shirt front. “ _Ask_ me, god damn it!”

But Sandburg kept silent, although his breath hitched. Letting go and standing up straight, Freeman pulled the revolver out from where he’d stuffed it in his belt, and pointed it at the hippie’s head. “Ask me,” he hissed, fury infusing his voice with menace.

But Sandburg just shook his head slightly, raising his un-crippled hand to his lips.

Finally Freeman got it. “Are you telling me,” he asked incredulously, “that you can’t fucking _talk_?”

Sandburg nodded.

Fuck! That ruined everything! “Jesus _fucking_ Christ on a kayak!” Freeman began to pace, up and down, his anger all-consuming. What the hell was he going to do now?

As he passed close to the wheelchair with the useless cripple in it, he kicked out, and Sandburg’s resulting flinch and wild grab at the chair-arm was worth the sudden agony in Freeman’s toes. His fury nowhere near slaked, he pointed the gun again at the seated man and, making sure Sandburg was watching, pulled the trigger.

It definitely helped. The bang of the gun was a satisfyingly shocking sound. The bullet whistled past Sandburg’s ear to bury itself in a shower of plaster in the far wall. And meanwhile, the cripple turned white with fear, no doubt having been certain in that second that he was going to die.

The combination of factors soothed Freeman, and he finally regained clarity of thought. The solution was obvious. The cripple had been able to write e-mail – therefore he was capable of typing. His communication would just have to be non-verbal, that was all.

Turning his back on Sandburg, who was panting as though he had run a race, Freeman moved through to the kitchen table. Sweeping debris off onto the floor with his arm, he unearthed the laptop that the owners of this residence had thoughtfully provided and powered it up, opening the word processing program that was on it. Bringing it back, he dumped it in Sandburg’s lap.

“That,” he said, gesturing at the laptop, “is your voice. So ask me.”

Sandburg glanced at him warily, then obediently typed a few words. Freeman moved around to look at the screen.

“ _What do you want?”_ Freeman read out loud. He chuckled. “How good of you to ask,” he replied, his good humor returned.

Moving round in front of Sandburg again, he said, “I’ll tell you, since you asked so nicely. I saw your press conference on TV. I know you lied – don’t even bother to deny it. Ellison is exactly what you said he was, isn’t he? What did you call it – a _sentinel_?”

Ignoring Sandburg’s gesture of denial, he went on, “I always knew there was something weird about him, man. He went on and _on_ about my cologne, and he fucking tracked me like a bloodhound into that sewer. He’s everything you said he was, isn’t he? And you,” he paused, moving closer. “You know everything there is to know about him, about what he is, what he can do.”

Sandburg shook his head, but he stopped when Freeman took out his gun again, and stroked Sandburg’s cheek with it. In fact, he seemed to have stopped breathing altogether. Into his silence, Freeman said, “And you know his weaknesses – what hurts him, what knocks his senses off-line. What _torments_ him. And that, my friend, is why you’re here, and what you’re going to help me do. And if you refuse, or try to double-cross me,” he rested the barrel of the gun between Sandburg’s wide, terrified eyes, “I’ll blow your fucking brains out. And then, I’ll go and do the same to _him_.”

***

Sitting in his truck outside Blair’s place, Jim was becoming increasingly impatient, and was beginning to worry, by the time that six o-clock came and went with still no sign of Sandburg. He’d tried calling him several times, but there had been no answer on any occasion.

He jumped as his own phone rang, and answered it quickly. “Blair?”

 _“No, it’s me,”_ Simon said. _“Jim, are you watching the news?”_

“No,” Jim said, frustrated and disappointed that it was Simon instead of Sandburg. “I’m not at home.”

 _“That’s probably a good thing,”_ Simon said, regret in his voice. _“It seems your story is out already, and it’s a hot item. Let me tell you, I’d be surprised if the press aren’t staking out the loft as we speak.”_

“Damn.” Jim had assumed he’d have a day’s grace, giving him time to wrap a few things up, such as letting Blair know about the approaching shit-storm in advance. “At least they don’t seem to have tracked Blair down yet,” he said.

 _“Is that where you are?”_ Simon asked. _“How did the kid take it?”_

“Yes,” Jim answered, “that’s where I am, and no, Blair’s not here, so I don’t know if he knows or what he thinks. The truth is, I’m worried about him. He should have been back by now.”

 _“Maybe he’s gone to the loft?”_ Simon speculated.

Jim hit himself on the forehead. “Shit! You may be right. I’ll head over there now, in case he’s been ambushed by reporters.”

 _“Be careful, Jim,”_ Simon warned. _“I don’t want to hear any reports about you being less than cordial to the gentlemen of the press.”_

“Don’t worry, Simon,” Jim said, starting up the engine. “I made my bed, and I’ll lie in it. I’m not trying to dodge the limelight this time.”

 _“Be careful, Jim,”_ Simon said again, before he hung up.

And as Jim pulled out into the road, he laughed humorlessly. ‘Careful’, Simon had said. If he’d only been _careful_ a few months ago, and backed up his partner instead of blaming him and cutting him off, maybe none of them would be in this position now.

Burying his regret – because he knew it was pointless – he turned and headed across town toward Prospect.

***

Blair had no choice but to revise his earlier opinion of Freeman and, to his chagrin, he had to admit that the nutso wasn’t the only person who had made erroneous assumptions. He’d considered the guy to be basically insane, but not really capable of murder. Now, however, having been up close and personal with the guy’s gun, he wasn’t so sure.

“Make a list,” Freeman had told him. “Tell me what hurts him, what fucking irritates him. Be inventive.”

So Blair was in the middle of dutifully complying, typing on the laptop Freeman had forced upon him. In the meantime, Freeman was lounging on the luxurious couch, drinking beer and eating a bag of chips, while watching the six-o-clock news on TV.

The program had been on for only a moment when a familiar name caught Blair’s attention. And if that hadn’t caused him to prick up his ears, Freeman’s whoop would have done so. “Woo-hoo! Ellison, you old dog!”

Footage of Jim and himself was flashing across the screen and, the next moment, Wendy Hawthorn was being interviewed. _“Detective Ellison approached me, because he didn’t want to live a lie any longer,”_ she said. _“He said he had to put right a wrong that he’d perpetrated, which disastrously damaged Blair Sandburg’s life and reputation. He told me he wanted to redress the balance, and finally do the right thing.”_

The anchorman came back on. _“Sources have confirmed that Detective Ellison resigned today from Cascade PD…”_

 _Oh Jim_ , Blair thought, his heart breaking and his own predicament forgotten, while the story ploughed on as relentlessly as a runaway train.

***

Just as Simon had suspected, Jim’s apartment building on Prospect was under siege when he got there. Microphones were thrust in his face and questions were fired at him from several directions, like bullets from automatic weapons.

This time, he didn’t try to dodge them. Instead, he faced the firing squad with his shoulders squared.

“Sandburg gave up everything to protect me,” he said. “I took the coward’s way out, and let him take the fall. It cost him his life’s work, his good name, and ultimately his health.”

“Detective Ellison, is it true that all your senses are heightened? That you are, in fact, a sentinel, and that Sandburg’s thesis is genuine?”

“Yes.”

“Mister Ellison, did you direct your friend to lie?”

“No. He did that of his own accord. He was trying to protect me.”

“Detective – is it true that you sold your story for a six-figure-sum to pay for Blair Sandburg’s medical expenses?”

“No comment.”

“Detective, Jenny Sirocco, Cascade TV News. What do you hope to gain by making this admission at this time?”

Jim looked right at the camera. “I want to give Blair his life back. That’s all.”

***

_“And we’re going live now to Prospect Avenue in Cascade, where, I’m told, Detective Ellison has just arrived home. Jenny? What can you tell us?”_

Blair had completely given up trying to type. If Freeman was to notice, and tried to threaten him right now, he was sure that he’d deck the bastard, paralysis or no paralysis. But it seemed that the scumbag was as riveted by the news about Ellison as he was – not particularly a surprise, since the guy had obsessed over Jim for the past year.

The reporter, Jenny Sirocco, carried on speaking. _“That’s correct, Kevin. Detective Ellison arrived home a short time ago, and is now inside the building.”_

 _“We can go to the footage of what happened there just a moment ago now, Jenny,”_ the anchorman said. And in the next second, Jim was onscreen, fielding a barrage of questions.

Listening to his friend’s stated reasons for doing what he’d done, Blair shook his head in dismay. And when Jim answered _“No comment,”_ in relation to Blair’s medical expenses, Blair wasn’t fooled for one second. He absolutely heard, “Yes.”

This wasn’t necessary. None of it was necessary, god damn it!

Then, suddenly, blue eyes were looking out of the TV screen, right into Blair’s soul. “ _I want to give Blair his life back. That’s all._ ”

Hanging his head, Blair closed his eyes, throat tight. This was nothing more nor less than ritual suicide. An act of sheer, altruistic heroism – Jim’s life for Blair’s.

Tit for tat.

And, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could be with Jim right now, Blair realized that he _understood_ – as no one else could understand quite so intimately – _exactly_ what Jim was going through right now.

***

The message light was blinking when Jim finally let himself into the loft. Still concerned about Blair’s whereabouts, he listened to the messages. All forty-two of them. One from Simon, three from his dad, and the rest from reporters. But, to his dismay, not a one from his missing partner.

Maybe Blair knew what Jim had done, and didn’t want to talk to him. And after having put himself through hell, all to keep a secret that Jim had eventually offered up on a plate, who could blame him?

Turning on the TV news, so he could see exactly how bad the damage was, Jim settled in for the long haul.

***

Freeman flicked off the TV when the news finished, and looked over at Blair. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” he snarled.

Dutifully, Blair lowered his head and began to type. But what actually came out was _fuck you, asshole_. As Freeman walked over, he hastily backspaced, then carried on writing the nonsense he’d been making up.

“White noise, huh?” Freeman read over his shoulder. “That makes his ears bleed?” He grinned. “Sweet!”

Blair kept his eyes down, but he was aware of Freeman’s movement through the room as his captor strode away and pulled on his jacket. “I’m going to get some takeout,” the guy said. “I’d get it delivered, but I don’t want anyone to get suspicious that someone is staying the house of these good folks while they’re traveling the world.” He sneered. “Rich assholes – they deserve to have their house trashed.”

Freeman came back over, and poked Blair in the shoulder. “Carry on typing. And don’t try to go anywhere – I’m locking the front door, and it’s the only one with a ramp. Unless this thing can go down a shitload of steps, you’re stuck. May as well accept it.” He tapped the laptop on Blair’s knee. “If you ain’t done another two pages by the time I get back, I’ll shoot you.”

With that, he disappeared. Blair held his breath as he heard Freeman walk out of the front door. The sound of a key turning confirmed that he’d locked it behind him and, after a few more moments, Blair heard the van’s engine as it disappeared down the drive.

Never having been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Blair got moving.

***

The phone rang again, as it had several times since Jim got in. Letting the answering machine pick up, Jim took a swig of his beer, and fixed his eyes on the _Bonanza_ re-run he’d found; just what he needed to block out painful reality.

 _“J… Jim,”_ came the halting voice, once the recorded invitation to leave a message finished. In a thrice Jim had vaulted over the couch and grabbed the receiver.

“Sandburg?” he said.

Blair was breathing deeply, audibly, evidently struggling to control his emotions so he could get the words out. He was never good at articulating when upset, so Jim attempted to help him out. “Look, buddy, I understand that you’re probably angry with me right now, but you have to know, this was my choice-”

 _“NO!”_ Blair cut him off, his voice imperative now he’d found it. _“LISTEN, o…okay?”_

“Sure.” Jim extended his hearing, and could hear the rapid, agitated thump of Blair’s heart. And his breathing sounded off, somehow, as if he was scared. “Blair,” Jim said suddenly, his intuition kicking in. “Are you in trouble?”

His friend’s heart rate went up even more, but all Blair could manage was a strangled, _“Uh huh.”_

It was affirmative enough, however, for Jim to understand it. But being so wound up was not helping Blair to convey what the problem was. “Breathe, Chief, all right? Take some deep breaths.”

There was a pause as Blair did what he asked and, in the background, Jim could hear another sound. Rapid staccato taps, as if his partner was typing.

It stopped, then Blair said, _“Check… egg roll.”_ At his aphasic stumble, Blair groaned in frustration. Then, after a couple more deep breaths, during which Jim waited impatiently, frustratingly knowing that trying to rush him would be counter-productive, Blair tried again. _“E… e-mail.”_

“Check email?” Jim repeated. “Gotcha, Chief. But I need to hang up to do it.”

 _“Okay.”_ To Jim’s dismay, the phone went dead.

Moving over to the computer desk, Jim powered up the PC and, as soon as he got into Windows, connected to the net. He grimaced in frustration; the modem had never seemed so slow.

Finally, after much foot tapping and gnashing of teeth, he was in. There was one new message, from a name Jim didn’t recognize. He opened it, and his eyes widened as he read. “Shit!” Rapidly, he forwarded the message to Simon at the PD and, disconnecting, he picked up the phone and dialed.

 _“Banks,”_ came the weary voice of Jim’s ex-captain; weary no doubt due to having fielded his own share of press inquiries and irate brass today.

“Simon,” Jim said urgently, “Blair’s been kidnapped. Remember that psycho I tangled with last year? Dan Freeman, the road rage guy? Well, he’s got Blair. He’s holding him hostage at a house in Clarendon Park.”

The momentary silence on the other end of the phone was pregnant with meaning. Then, Simon remarked, _“Why are things never normal with you two?”_

Under other circumstances, Jim would have grinned at the long-suffering tone. But right now, his partner – his _disabled_ partner – was in the hands of an obsessive-compulsive maniac with psychotic tendencies, and Jim had heard the fear in his voice. “There’s a message in your e-mail in-box. It contains the address where Blair’s being held. I’m going over there now.”

 _“Jim wait-”_ Banks protested, but there was no time for that. Putting the phone down, Jim grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it. He’d have to sneak down the fire escape to escape the press, if he was going to do this without a posse on his tail.

Hurriedly unlocking a box he kept under the sink, he pulled out his own Sig Sauer and clip and, after loading the gun, tucked it into his empty belt holster. He might not be a cop anymore, but he kept his civilian firearms permit up to date, and his personal weapon in good working order. No way was he going in there if he wasn’t packing; Blair had said that Freeman was armed and dangerous. And Jim was going to do whatever he had to get Blair out of there safely – even if it ultimately meant going to jail.

Hell, he’d already given up everything else.

***

When Freeman arrived back at the house he’d commandeered while its affluent residents were on vacation, he was pleased to see that the hippie had obeyed his order. The little shit was still in his chair, typing furiously.

God, the guy had no balls at all.

Freeman debated giving him some of his chow mein, in the interest of getting as much out of him as he could, but decided against it. It would be a waste of good food, since he was going to blow Sandburg away as soon as he’d typed out sufficient information.

Leaving his prisoner to get on with his work, Freeman headed over to the couch. He sat down and flicked on the TV again, cracking open another beer before unwrapping his chopsticks.

 Might as well kick back and enjoy his meal until it was time to get this show on the road.

***

Blair was running out of believable lies, and had started to obfuscate in more outrageous terms. He had to admit that he was, probably, slightly hysterical. He just hoped that Jim would arrive before Freeman decided to take another look at what he’d written – Blair was certain the guy wouldn’t believe the effect he’d said that catnip would have on Jim’s libido.

Blair had been incredibly lucky that the office at the top of the stairs had contained a phone, as well as a sophisticated internet setup. It was clear that Freeman had chosen this house, at least in part, because of the type of technology it contained; it was a hacker’s paradise. Obviously, the person whose office that really was, worked in computing; it was professional quality equipment and software. The fact that the office was up the stairs had erroneously led Freeman to believe that Blair wouldn’t be able to get to it; hence the phone up there had been in working order.

Envelopes on the desk helpfully supplied Blair with the address of this house, so contacting Jim was a piece of cake. After that, Blair had unlocked the back door, providing Jim with the easy access he’d promised in the e-mail. And then he’d just had time to get back into his chair, and to type more utter rubbish in pseudo-academic jargon, before Freeman got back.

And it looked, at long last, like backup had arrived. Stealthy as a cat, Jim appeared silently in the hall, gun held in both hands, and Blair’s heart leapt with joy and relief. Forcing himself to carry on typing and therefore not give the game away – his fingers hitting random keys, since there was no further need to make sense – Blair gestured with his head toward where Freeman was sitting obliviously on the couch, and Jim nodded his understanding.

It all moved quickly after that, and was oddly a bit of an anticlimax. Jim crept up behind Freeman who, engrossed in the TV, never knew what hit him, as Jim cold-cocked him with his pistol, knocking him out cold. He produced handcuffs, and cuffed the unconscious nutcase’s hands behind his back. “You okay, Chief?” Jim asked, as he secured his prisoner.

“Yeah.” Blair stopped typing and flexed his cramped fingers, letting the laptop slide to the floor. He gestured at Freeman. “Thought you… gave ‘em back?” he said.

Jim glanced down at the handcuffs with a shrug. “These ones have sentimental value,” he said cryptically.

“Ah,” Blair acknowledged sagely.

Leaving Freeman lying face down, Jim stepped over the bound man and walked toward Blair. He grabbed a straight-backed chair and sat down by his partner. “Hell of a day,” he remarked casually. Then, almost as an afterthought, added, “Simon’s on the way, with backup.”

Blair couldn’t help but grin, now the danger was passed. And anyway, he was really, _really_ pleased to see Jim. “Like… old times, huh?”

“Yeah, partner,” Jim agreed, his expression equal parts humor and relief. “You got that right.” He gave Blair a measuring look. “You did great, Ironside,” he said admiringly. Then asked, “He hurt you at all?”

Blair shook his head. Changing the subject, he stated simply, “I know.”

“I figured you might.” Suddenly, Jim looked unutterably sad. “I’m sorry, Chief,” he said. “What a mess, huh?”

“It was… your life.”

Blair’s words were an echo of Jim’s own to him, months ago, and Jim caught the reference immediately. Smiling sadly, he whispered, “It was just a job.”

In answer Blair held out his hand, and welcomed Jim into the embrace they both so desperately needed.

And as they held on, gaining strength from each other’s strength, Blair remembered what he’d once said to Naomi. That he had the brass ring, right here. And at last, he realized, so did Jim. Nothing else mattered.

There might be losses for them both to grieve along the way – his life’s work, and Jim’s vocation as a cop being two of the major ones. But they were both survivors. They’d get through this crisis the same way they’d gotten through everything else. The same way they’d just dealt with Freeman.

And they’d face the future, however imperfect, together.

 

**Epilogue**

He was back. Dan Freeman, the guy who Thierry hated to tangle with.

Thierry had heard him from the other end of the corridor, screaming about ‘revenge’ and ‘Ellison’ as he’d been locked in his room, confined to solitary until his medication took effect and he calmed down.

Funny, Thierry thought. That name, ‘Ellison’ – someone had said that name on the TV just a moment ago. Looking up from his comic book, he tuned in to what was happening on the screen.

A flock of reporters were talking to a tall, muscular man, standing next to a younger, longhaired guy in a wheelchair. _“Mister Ellison, did you use your sentinel abilities to rescue Mister Sandburg?”_

 _“No,”_ Ellison answered. _“Sandburg rescued himself. If it wasn’t for his quick thinking, it could have ended in tragedy.”_

Another voice chimed in. _“Mister Sandburg, it’s rumored that Rainier University have retracted their allegations of academic fraud. If they offer you a job, will you go back?”_

 _“I… already… have a job,”_ the young guy said haltingly. Despite his unsteady voice, his determination was clear.

_“Mister Ellison, what does the future hold for you, now that you’re unemployed?”_

Thierry didn’t hear the answer. His mind had already drifted off, and he tuned back in to the adventures of Captain America. The real world, he’d always considered, was so _boring_ in comparison to the things that happened in comics.

Shame there were no real-life comic book heroes, fully equipped with super powers. Maybe even hyper senses.

Now that would be _something_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story a very long time ago, in 2005, but for Reasons have refused (until now) to even think about it, never mind contemplate posting it online. I didn’t even keep the original file. But time heals all wounds, or so they say. Or at least it makes you look back with the benefit of distance and shake your head at the whole thing. I recently got hold of a copy, read it, and decided I can live with it now. Time, distance, and all those good things. They do help. So here it is.
> 
> Thanks to Vamysteryfan, Gardendoor, Rhianne, Carodee, Admiralandrea and a host of other LiveJournalers, all of whom provided information in response to various queries. Special thanks to Pollyb who was my consultant on medical matters, as was Fingers, who also acted as plot beta. And extra special thanks to Starwatcher who, as technical beta, gave this story a final once over, as well as providing invaluable technical information and generally going above and beyond the call.


End file.
